


Can't Face This Life Alone...

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Affection, Affectionate Insults, Aliases, And such a dad, Angst, As Jim Hutton said - they're soulmates, Attempt at humour, BDSM Scene, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Band Fic, Band as Family, Bickering, Bill Reid is a piece of shit, Brian May to the rescue, Brian and John get philosophical I mean, Brian worries about Freddie bless him, Brotherly Affection, But Brian handles himself magnificently, But it's the eighties and he's a rock star, But the band is the focal point here, Confessions, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deacy is such a dork and I love him, Declarations Of Love, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, Epic Friendship, Eventual Happy Ending, Fights, Freddie Mercury has the biggest heart in the world, Freddie Mercury is best buds with John Deacon and they're so sweet together it hurts me, Freddie Mercury thinks about Mary Austin, Freddie is attracted to Roger but it's not a pining situation, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Gross-out factor incoming, Having rows, He's not exactly pining for her but, Hot Space Era, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, I have no idea how many cats Freddie has but I'll do my best, I love how physically affectionate these four always were with each other, I'm so sorry for this, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Interviews, Jim Beach is awesome, John Deacon is a sweetheart, John Deacon is adorable, John Deacon/Veronica Tetzlaff is mentioned, John is a Good Friend, Light BDSM, Medical Conditions, Medical Jargon, Oh Rog you naughty boy, Paul doesn't speak in this and yet he's still terrible, Philosophy, Phobias, Platonic Kissing, Protective Roger Taylor (Queen), References to Illness, Roger Taylor is effusive and physically affectionate, Roger is a chain-smoker, Roger is an idiot but he tries, Roger is volatile and snippy but we love him, SNL Performance, Saturday Night Live References, Sick Character, Smoking, So are Dominique and Roger being together, So is Roger once you get down to it, Sort of. It's hard to explain, Star Wars References, Swearing, The press hounds bands and it frustrates me, They legitimately just love each other, Worry, but it ends well I promise, love without words, so that's to be expected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-11-26 15:56:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18182666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: Fred gets a bad flu. John and Roger try to take care of him but are abysmal at best-- Roger burns soup and almost singes a cat and Deacy runs around with bedclothes tented over his head until Brian arrives to save the day.(Or, it is late summer/early fall of 1982 and after theHot Spacetour in America Freddie gets incredibly sick. It is entirely possible this sickness was the original inception of his HIV/AIDS symptoms.)Includes some swearing.Chapters 10 and 11 in particular include medical situations that could potentially be frightening or triggering to some readers. I will also be including some references to an abusive relationship and to drug use in later chapters, so please be warned and read responsibly.





	1. Day One, Night. It Started Off So Well...

"Deacy," Roger hisses loudly. His friend and bandmate groans from where he is curled up on the left side of the bed. " _Deacy!_ Are you asleep?!"

"I _was_ ," John's blowsy brown head turns away from him and buries itself beneath a pillow. "So kindly piss off."

Poke, poke. "I can't, John." Roger Taylor's blond head leans over the other's covered one as he jabs at the bassist's back with a sharp finger.

"Why _NOT?_ "

Roger's high, husky voice is serious. "Because something's up with Freddie."

John Deacon is instantly on alert, flinging the pillow off of his head and turning to Roger with hazel eyes wide. "What-- how d'you know?"

Roger's ears grow slightly red. "He uh...he isn't, erm, snuggling with me anymore."

John shoots upright and scans the dark room for signs of their lead singer. He sees nothing. Huh. "Well that is a bit unusual," he smacks his lips and speaks slowly. 

"Ya think?" The other scoffs.

John sighs and slings his bare legs and feet out of the huge bed and its mass of fluffy blankets. He tiptoes across the echoing room to look into the living area. Sometimes Freddie goes out to his inverted-key piano to play in the middle of the night, and John expects to spy him caressing the keys with a drink in hand. But nothing moves besides two cats chasing each other across the shadowy floor. 

Roger pokes his head around the bedroom door. "Find him?" 

John rolls his eyes. "No, obviously not. Wait," The cats had gone across to the other side of the room catty corner from the kitchen. Delilah's room, if Roger remembers right. There's a light on, and a wrenching, gasping sound emanates from out of it. 

The two men glance at each other and hustle over. "I think there's a connecting bathroom. That's gotta be where he is," Roger whispers. Going through the large bedroom-- too big for a single cat, as far as he is concerned --the blond drummer notes that the bed is rumpled and a blanket extends to the door of the bathroom as if it had been dragged and possibly thrown. Retching sounds are coming from the darkened room, and Roger almost turns around and walks back out. 

But then he hears Freddie moan weakly, and that decides it. His friend is in pain. He looks at Deacy once again before tapping at the door. "...Fred?" Poking his head around its edge, the drummer sees the singer with one arm leaning on the porcelain toilet bowl and his head hanging over its top. Bleary brown eyes lift to look at him. Instantly Roger rushes in and pushes back Freddie's dark hair from his forehead. It is soaked with sweat, but his knees are shivering against the tiled floor.

John's feet move away, and Roger wants to say something smart or sharp to him, as _he_ hadn't run away even though he initially wanted to. But then John is back with a glass that he's filled with water. "Here y' go, Freddie," Deacy speaks softly, crouching down and handing him the cup. 

Freddie's hand shakes a little as he takes it, and Roger keeps one hand on his hair, still holding the tresses back. "--Thank you," the singer gasps a little, looking up at them both. "I'm so sorry to have woken you, dears."

John, noticing that Freddie's shoulders are now shaking, goes out the door of the bathroom and grabs the blanket left by the doorway to wrap around him. "No worries, Fred," the bassist assured. "Roger was the one to wake me anyhow."

Roger glowers at John over Freddie's head, voice squeaking "B-because I was worrying about you, Freddie! We can't have our lead singer sleepwalking through his house, maybe hurting himself tripping over cats; that wouldn't be very good at all, would it?"

"Of course not," John's eyebrows disappear into his curly bouffant hair. "I see exactly what you mean now, Roger. Mm-hmm. That's insightful." He speaks in a sly manner that barely registers as sarcasm. Roger doesn't immediately pick up on it; he actually appears smug for a moment before noticing Freddie's wan smile. "... Except for the fact that he wasn't sleepwalking."

"Wanker!" Roger slaps at John, who dodges out of his way, entire face brightening in laughter. The drummer sighs explosively and flings his arms up, nearly buffeting Freddie's head. "Oof, sorry Freddie," he instantly apologises, contenting himself with making an obscene gesture and shaking his head at John. "C'mon, let's get you back to bed, yeah? Can you stand?" His feverish friend appears so pitiful that Roger answers his own question. "Evidently not. Alright, here we go." He crouches down and wraps both arms around Freddie's form, pulling him against his bare chest securely. With a grunt, the drummer lifts his friend relatively easily, straightening from the knees. 

Freddie automatically sags against him, breaths ruffling the light hair on Roger's chest. "My head is doing its absolute best to destroy me, darling," he murmurs. 

Roger sniffs. "No worries. John, see if you can't find something for his head." He turns himself sideways to shuffle with Freddie out the door, and John nods sharply but does not argue being ordered about. The slender bassist holds the door wide after walking through it, and Roger brings Freddie towards their bedroom.

"Just a moment," Freddie speaks softly. "Roger," he puts one palm against his friend's flesh, which is radiating a natural warmth that is as soothing to Freddie as a hot bath. The drummer dips his head, feathery pieces of blond hair falling down over his forehead.

Freddie all but loses his train of thought as he looks into Roger's bright blue eyes, filled with a softness that the world rarely sees. But then he catches the thought again. "Ah--I think it might be best to leave me in Delilah's room, darling. Just in case I am very sick, I don't want to leave my germs in your bed." Doing his best to smile though he appears exhausted, the dark-haired man adds "...I give you leave to snuggle with Deacy while I'm gone."

Roger gasps in semi-faux horror. "C'mon Fred, you know I only do that with you!"

"Wow." John comes back holding a makeshift ice pack that he gently places on Freddie's head. "I'm offended. I'm not a bad snuggler, myself." 

Roger snorts as he gently takes Freddie back to Delilah's bed and lays him down on it. "Who told you that? Veronica? Deacy, she _has_ to say it-- she's married to you."

John says nothing, only smiles a secretive little smile that is caught and returned by Freddie. Roger sees it and whips his head around even as he tucks bedclothes around Freddie tenderly. "Now HANG on, seriously?? You and Deacy?" Crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall, Roger sticks out his lower lip in a pouty way, voice cracking perfectly. "Now _I'm_ a little offended that I wasn't invited."

"Next time," Freddie said, his voice fading fast in exhaustion. 

"...Maybe," John quips. "'Night Fred." 

"Good night, John. Sleep well, Roger."

"Yeah, yeah," Roger mumbles, automatically swooping down to peck Freddie on the forehead when the other looks up at him, dark eyes appearing worried. "It's fine, I'm joking," he assures him. "Just yell if you need anything. Or send Delilah after me. I can call her," and the drummer lets out a halfway decent caterwaul.

John jumps and then the others hear his footsteps rapidly retreating, a door slamming, and him calling from their bedroom: "...if you're going to keep doing that I'm not letting you sleep in here." 

"Too bad, I won't put another cat out of their bed." There is a small silence and then the door creaks.

"Fine, fair. Come on then." Roger chuckles as he heads over, Freddie looking after with a tiny smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My information on Freddie's flu comes from a spread in LIFE Magazine about Queen and its legacy. 
> 
> I am fudging a wee bit of the history to allow for Freddie to be at his house whilst ill, rather than in the United States on the _Hot Space_ tour. I see this as being an interlude when he and the boys were able to go home before their appearance on Saturday Night Live in September of '82.
> 
> Please feel free to let me know what you think of this piece--I love comments :)


	2. Day Two, Morning. Was it All Wasted?

"Where does he even keep the pots in this house?"

Roger is up and clanging round Freddie's kitchen as John washes dishes from the night before. They all had quite an excellent dinner before Fred ended up heaving in the bathroom, and this morning has not been much better for him. Roger woke up early to check in on his friend and found him soaked through but shivering, blankets flung everywhere and Romeo and Frank curled up on either side of Fred as if their tiny bodies could keep him warm. Or maybe they think he's their mother; Roger doesn't rightly understand cats. Delilah had looked at him from her place beside Freddie's head in what he could only assume was disapproval. She seemed to be telling him: _'get off your arse and take care of my human'_ so here he is, searching for pots. And soup.

Deacy heads to check on the status of the wash; they had gathered up a lot of Fred's sweat-soaked blankets to clean them, and then John hears Freddie moving about so goes to check on him. Leaving Roger to continue his search.

He surveys the kitchen, opening cabinets to search out amenable sick foods. No beans and toast this day. Soup would be good, he'd decided, but first he has to boil water, and to do that he will need to locate a bloody pot. Right. The blond man goes over to Fred's oven and turns on a burner to prep it, bending down and opening a drawer beside the oven to start looking there....

"Mrow!" 

A furry dark shape slides in front of him and Roger seizes up after jerking backwards with a "Jeez! Oh, hullo, puss." Covering his face and sliding to the floor, Roger moans "You practically scared the LIFE out of me. Delilah, yeah? Or wait, are you Romeo?" He is darker coloured as well, and Roger can never keep the pussies straight, nor can he remember all of their names or what they look like. They all have different-coloured fur and are various sizes, but to Roger they're also just, well, _cats._ "How Fred does it I'll never know. Want to help me look for cooking utensils? Eh?" 

The feline blinks slowly at him in what he perceives as _'they're right in front of your face, you incompetent pisspot'_ Roger sighs with frustration. He gets enough looks like that at home from Dominique when he asks something. Usually in the kitchen. Or if he tells her that he's going out for a couple of hours and not to wait up.

"Suit yourself then." Roger grunts with exertion and gets to his feet, spotting another cupboard on the kitchen's opposite side. 

He hears a hiss and then a slight thump! behind him as he heads over to the cupboard, and then there is yowling and a whooshing sound and John is barreling into the room screaming " _ROGER TAYLOR what the BLOODY hell?!_ " like he's five years old.

"Relax, John, I think I've found a pot--aha, yes!" Roger opens the cupboard and spots a steel pot. He grabs it triumphantly and turns, holding it up. "See? Oh, shit--"

The cat who'd gone past him is screeching and its tail is on fire as a sheet of flame erupts up from the gas burner Roger had turned (and left) on. John turns off the burner with one hand, and --with great presence of mind, Roger thought-- gripped the animal by the scruff of its neck and dunked it, scratching and spitting and screeching, into the soapy water still filling the right side of the sink from his earlier attempt at washing dishes. 

Steam rises along with another hiss, and John's curly pate as well as the entire front of his shirt are utterly drenched. He is dripping as the acrid scent of burnt hair rises in the air. The cat meows more softly now and bats its paws at John, who lets it go only to watch the kitty disappear in a streak of fur, fleeing and fearing for its life, most likely.

John slowly raises his eyes to Roger's and blinks slowly. "Well?" He eventually asks. 

"Err...at least I didn't catch the whole kitchen on fire?" Roger shuffles and clenches his teeth awkwardly, attempting to flash a smile. 

"Yeah, Rog, that's great." John speaks sardonically, eyes narrowing at his friend, as if he cannot entirely register the extent of Roger's stupidity. "... You're lucky Samson has long fur, and that I happened to come in here before he set fire to the place. Can you IMAGINE us carrying poorly Fred and all of these cats out?" The bushy-haired bassist shakes his head. "Seriously, what on Earth were you thinking?"

Roger glowers, his soft-cheeked face looking leaner in anger. How could John talk to him like that, ask him such an idiotic question? He jerks his fingers through his hair with a sharp movement, wishing he had his drumsticks to twirl and get the anger out that way. "What do you think?" He shoots back. "I just wanted to make Fred some blasted soup or something, help him FEEL better, while you're over there _washing clothes_ like a ruddy housewife! How does THAT help?!"

John's shoulders stiffen but he tries to keep his tone even, patient. "I needed to clean his blankets and sheets so they'll keep him warm. After last night they were soaked through."

And that makes Roger snap, the tone, like he's an idiot or a child-- and the fact that his friend is so sick right out of nowhere and he has no idea what is wrong or what had caused it. "Don't patronise me, damn it! I'm not one of your kids, Daddy Deacon, I know what I'm bloody well doing, thank you very much!" John looks down and bites his lip to hide what appears to be a slight smile, but Roger sees it anyway. "Oh, think this is FUNNY, do you? Yeah, hilarious. Dumb arse Roger Taylor and his inability to perform a simple fucking domestic task without screwing it up. I'd like to see you do better." He snarls.

There is a moment of silence when Roger feels his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and then John returns, voice a trifle wobbly: "I can make some soup, yes. I'm the ruddy housewife with children to talk down to, and apparently to make feel idiotic, as you just pointed out." 

Roger goes still and his eyes get huge as John, blinking rapidly, turns away from him. The younger man's shoulders slump as he opens up another one of Freddie's cupboards and finds some pasta, which might work as well as soup does, and Fred does enjoy Italian. 

The drummer wants to kick himself. His anger had cooled as quickly as it came, which was always the case; other than during the now-infamous 'I'm In Love With My Car' closet episode, but he never seemed to be able to just ...not say something horrid. And he doesn't know how to apologise at the moment, so in cowardice he bursts out: "Okay, well, I'm... going to go check on Fred."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *now-infamous 'I'm In Love With My Car' closet episode = I find it hilarious that to get his song on the B-side of _A Night at the Opera_ Roger actually locked himself inside a cupboard and refused to come out until Freddie promised to do it
> 
> I think Roger is the sort of person who would get flashes of anger and just blurt out in that anger before cooling off and realising what he'd said. And sweet John is so patient, but I think certain words (insinuating that he talks down to people and makes them feel like idiots, or that being a housewife/doing domestic tasks is somehow diminishing) would hit him where he lives and hurt him deeply.
> 
> Ugh for once I wanted to write a story without any angst in it, and yet here comes the Angst Train...
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think, and thanks for reading :)


	3. Day Two, Mid-day. I Hang My Head...

Roger expects Freddie to be asleep.

Actually, it is more like he hopes that Fred is asleep so that a) it means he hadn't heard Roger shout at Deacy and b) he doesn't have to talk about it. 

No such luck. 

Fred is sitting upright, wrapped snugly in a now-clean blanket with pillows propping his back up. He has a mug -- and a pot! -- of hot tea beside him. When was he given that? Roger remembers John in the kitchen much earlier, doing some dish washing. He had fiddled about on the stove and then gone. Roger had already been crashing around searching for a soup pot, so hadn't heard or paid much attention to what John was doing. What a bastard he had been. 

"When did you get your tea, Fred?" He asks, sitting down on the end of the bed a trifle hesitantly as his friend urges him to. "You feeling any better today?"

Freddie coughs and rubs at the side of his face briefly with the blanket. "A little, darling. Thank you. John came in frightfully early and traded my blankets for tea. They were utterly _ghastly_ after yesterday's horrors, but he took them and gave 'em a wash. Said he was going to help you after bringing them back. What on Earth did you just get up to in the kitchen, darling? I heard shouting and then Sammy came running through here like a bat from Hell."

Roger winces. "You heard."

Freddie coughs out a chuckle, rubbing at his face again. "It was hard not to." Tilting his head, fingers stilling beside his bright red cheek, Freddie's gaze grows pointed. The glazed expression that had been in his eyes last night is gone now, thankfully. Although since his faculties are sharp once more, Roger knows he won't be able to throw him off. The singer's voice grows intent and quiet, without flamboyance or verve; this is serious for Freddie. "What did you say to him, Roger?"

Oh boy.

"I was --an arse," the drummer admits, head bowing forward and the palms of his hands pressing together between his knees. "I, erm-- well, I almost burned the cat."

Freddie's eyes bug out. "You WHAT?!?"

Oh, Jesus. "Don't worry, he's alright! Deacy made sure of that before he ran." Pinching his lips between two fingers now as he had thrown his hands out to placate Freddie, Roger explained the fiasco. "I was an idiot, and embarrassed about it, so I snapped at John and I shouldn't have." Roger winces. "...I basically told him what he's doing is meaningless." 

Freddie's eyes are still wide, but their brown depths soften as he listens. "Oh, Roger, love--"

"I know," Roger buries his face in his hands and then roughs up his hair with them. Sweet Deacon, this would kill him. "...and then he wouldn't even look at me, so I came in here." Dropping his hands and looking helplessly at Freddie, he adds "I have to apologise, but I don't know how."

The sick man, whose skin on the left side of his face looks abnormally red, now that Roger thinks about it, scoots a trifle closer and reaches out with his opposite hand, resting it on the drummer's nearer knee. "It will be all right, darling. Just speak to him from your heart." Freddie smiles, and then sucks in a breath. "Oof. This is a frightful itch!" He moves away and rubs the skin of his left arm ferociously. 

Roger, alarm bells going off in his head, reaches out and grabs onto Freddie's hand. "Fred, stop." He stares at the skin of the other man's arm, which is not only raw from the rubbing, but its redness is rather blotchy. Oh no. "Let me have a look at your face--" the other turns obediently and it is Roger's turn for his eyes to bulge. "That's a rash. Deacy!" He forgets for a moment that John is hurt, and that he was angry. "Johnny, come quick!"

***

John's skin was smarting as steam started to rise from the pot Roger found and he used to put noodles in. He shivers slightly as his shirt remains soaked, and he isn't an exhibitionist like Roger or Freddie, so he's not taking off the shirt in order to let it dry. May as well suffer through. 

He stirs the cooking noodles slowly with a spoon, thinking about how well Ronnie manages this sort of thing. Roger was right about his personal duties as a housewife-- his own wife was the real trouper, did all this so he could tour with a _rock band_.

John never expected for this to be a part of his life, not in the sense it was. He had joined Queen with the thought that it would be a part-time thing; a hobby, really. And then his electrical engineering interests took a back seat as the band exploded.

He never really thought of himself as a rock star. Not as any smarter or better than anybody either, with his stable job idea. He honestly envies Brian's ability to decide that sure, it's great to be an astrophysicist, but playing guitar is what I REALLY want to do. And Roger...he could have been a dentist, but that would have been a boring job for him. John can see him now, flirting with all the pretty patients and drumming absentmindedly with his dentistry tools. And Fred, well. Freddie could not be anything other than what he is now. 

Thinking this, John's hands still. He feels like an imposter. Maybe he _had_ put some sense of idiocy out at Roger, because he was feeling it about himself. He had come running in, scared out of his mind to hear that cat's yowl, and the fire behind his friend had simply terrified him-- bright-eyed Roger, those quick drummer's hands, that boisterous spirit could have gone up in smoke as easily as Freddie could get --could be-- so very sick. And he is a _father_ , he should know exactly what to do, how to help. But he doesn't. He hadn't even thought about putting out the cat, he'd just reacted. And there he'd been calling Roger out for being stupid. He feels a deep, hot burst of shame slicing through his innards.

John turns off the heat under the now-cooked noodles and is preparing to make some sauce for them when he hears Roger's panicked voice shout his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *he had joined Queen with the thought that it would be a part-time thing = this is true. John Deacon was incredibly focused on his studies in electrical engineering, and tried out to play bass on a whim. He never expected to be a part of Queen for so long, or for the band to get as big as it did. 
> 
> Dear, sweet Deacy just wanted to live a simple life.


	4. Day Two, Afternoon. A Soul for Sale or Rent

Pounding footsteps precede John's presence in the doorway of the bedroom. His features are composed into a configuration that Roger finds nigh impossible to read, but his eyes are blazing with what could be anger or worry or fear; none of those emotions, or all. "What is it, Roger?"

"Fred's got a rash, look." Roger's eyes are wide as he holds out Freddie's arm to be inspected by John. Freddie lets him. "--Can you tell what it is?"

John longs to spit out something about oh, _now_ Roger is trusting his judgement? But he can tell the other man is legitimately worried and so he refrains. "...Well, it isn't measles," the bassist says after studying the rash closely. "Veronica and I had a scare with one of the kids on that one. Have you had any symptoms that started before yesterday, Fred? Anything you can think of?"

Freddie smacks his lips, trying not to scratch. "Well, I thought this was no more than a bit of over-exertion on tour, mind you." Roger nods agreeably as the singer glances at him. "...but last week I felt rather tingly and achy. Not in any definable way, with muscles or anything. Nothing close to the scare we had with Brian."

The other two grow somber at that recollection. "So no hepatitis or gangrene. That's good. You have different symptoms, anyway. Let's see if I can't do something for that rash. Erm." Roger runs his fingers through his hair, wheels spinning. He is trying to recall his medical training at Uni--feels like it happened a lifetime ago. He snaps his fingers. "Ah! I can make a paste with water and baking soda to lessen the itching."

John nods silently.

Then "Maybe we ought to call Brian--at least let him know what's going on."

"We'll be taking him away from the press junket, dears," Freddie reminds them. 

John sighs and voices reluctantly, "We can't take him out of it now--you know how single-minded and stubborn Bri is. The second he hears you're ill he won't hesitate to cancel everything and fly back."

"Right, and we can't afford that at this point. _Hot Space_ isn't exactly--" Roger says and stops.

Freddie raises his eyebrows. "Isn't exactly what, dear?"

John looks at him sideways and Roger squirms. "Well it isn't exactly our usual--has a lot of disco--"

"Sure," the bassist agrees in a dark tone. "And what exactly is wrong with that, Roger?"

Not wanting to begin another row, Roger backs off. Or at least does his best; he's not going to shut up about what he thinks completely though. "Nothing, really. It's--it just sounds like we're going into a particular sort of club when listening to it. Not my kind of scene, you know? I told you this," he shoots at Freddie. "While we were recording. Remember?"

Fred's lips have pursed and his body is still. "Yes, I recall." His tone of voice is a trifle clipped and cool. "But I clearly didn't realise how strongly you feel about it even now."

Oh, hell. John is still not speaking, but his jaw works and his lower lip puffs out as he stands with arms folded and eyes flickering back and forth between his two bandmates. Fred and Roger hardly ever fight. Not like this. Freddie flounces about and comes out with some sharp-tongued criticism, and Roger shouts and throws things.

Roger swallows hard. He doesn't even want to bring up something like 'Back Chat'--doesn't want this conversation to end up begetting anything like that song, though his earlier words to John could already have done so. But that will only reopen wounds, and after his shouting at John enough wounds have already been opened today. 

Besides, they still have got to figure out what exactly is wrong with Freddie. Roger has a couple of theories now after the initial shock has passed, but can be certain about none of them until a longer incubation period occurs --of a couple more days, at least, which isn't good. Certainly won't be comfortable for Freddie. Roger now glances at John for reassurance, if not outright support, and does a double-take as he catches sight of and actually focuses on the younger man's folded arms.

"Hang on--John, what's up with your arms, mate?"

"Mm? Oh." The bassist lifts his arms to reveal a host of lengthy ugly red scratches. "These are from the cat. Samson exhibited quite a bit of antipathy towards me after I dunked him." He shrugs it off as he shrugs away Roger's concern. "Understandable; it's nothing."

"...After I was the one who practically set him on fire," Roger retorts, eyes lowering in guilt for a moment. But only a moment as his tone now grows matter-of-fact: "So it's definitely something. We've got to wash those out and cover them." His medical training is kicking in--uselessly, as he still feels like shit for allowing this to happen to John in the first place-- "I'll go get some ointment and bandages, and I'll make a paste with soda too. Try not to scratch yourself, Freddie."

The singer shakes out his arms and wrists flamboyantly as if they were wings. "I'll do my damnedest, darling," he assures.

"I'll watch out for him," John says. "Then we can eat my homemade Italian that might be bollocks." He smiles slightly at Freddie, who leans in as if to pat him on the back or kiss his cheek. But he stops short and the other man can instantly tell he is worried about contagion. And that truly saddens John, as Fred is such an exuberant, generous person who offers hugs as freely and often as he offers kindness. 

"That sounds wonderful, darling." Freddie speaks far softer than before as Roger bustles back into the kitchen to locate the spice cabinet. Luckily he recalls where the pots are now, and watches the boiling process closely as he stirs cups of white granules of baking soda into warm water to form a paste. The cats have rather wisely chosen to make themselves scarce.

"Fred! Where d'you keep peroxide and cotton swabs and that?" Roger yells.

"In the washroom, darling! Where else?" Freddie calls back. 

Oh yeah. "Right!" Roger gets into the cabinet alongside Freddie's sink and brings the now-cooling paste along with cleaning supplies for John's scratches, ointment, and bandages. "This may feel a little...squiffy," the blond tells Freddie as he prepares to coat Fred's face and arm with the anti-itching paste.

Freddie waves him off by flapping both of his hands. "I'll survive the itching for a few moments longer, Rog. Do take care of Deacy."

Roger pauses and John blinks. "You sure, Fred?" The bassist softly asks. "I can wait."

"I'm sure." The dark haired man speaks with utter certainty. "Go on, Roger." His words and the look in his eyes suggests for the drummer to do more than simply fix John's scratches and Roger fidgets. Freddie certainly knows him well enough; and therefore is well-aware that he needs a little push.

Clearing his throat, Roger glances at Deacy in awkward self-consciousness, unusual for him. John sighs again and looks briefly away before sitting down on the floor facing Roger and holding out his arms obediently. The drummer also sits and takes hold of his right one, deftly wiping a wet washcloth over it, putting pressure on each of the scratches. John clenches his fist and the crows' feet at the outer corners of his eyes grow a trifle more pronounced, but other than that he remains silent and patient as Roger cleans his other arm and pats them both dry.

"Now this is going to smart," the drummer warns as he spreads a dry towel across his knees and asks John to lay his arms atop the cloth. "Lean forward, would you?" The bassist arches an eyebrow and Roger amends his order: "Please." 

Rubbing alcohol bubbles over John's skin as Roger pours it and peroxide onto his arms, and Deacy yelps softly. Instantly Freddie's hand is on his back rubbing it soothingly, and Roger finds his free hand cupped around the back of John's neck, fingers gently stroking his cheek. Flipping half of the towel over top of the scratches, Roger now wraps both hands around them to blot the skin dry. He releases his hold on John's neck and face with the briefest possible caress. 

Now tearing open the packet of bandages, Roger sticks them atop the smarting scratches and keeps his hands in place gripping John's arms for a lengthy moment. His face is bent beside the bassist's and his hands are so very warm. The heat and strength of his grasp are both inordinately comforting to John, and he blinks before raising his hazel eyes to catch Roger's blue ones.

"Roger, I--"

"John, mate, I shouldn't--" They start speaking at the same time, John letting out a chuckle and Roger's lips lifting into a surprised smile. He lets go of John's bandages now and in a true expression of magnanimity offers "You go first."

"No, what were you going to say, Rog?"

"It's alright, you can--"

"For the love of all that's good in this world, ONE of you say something!" Freddie bursts out.

So "I was an arse to you," Roger utters bluntly. "I shouldn't've jumped all over you the way I did, saying that about you treating me like an idiot. I AM an idiot."

John is shaking his head. "No, Roger, you're not."

"I am, I am, because I went on at you like you're useless, and that couldn't be further from the truth." Turning and taking the bassist's hands in his as he looks him directly in the eyes, Roger speaks seriously. "You're the heart of this band, Deacy. Truly. We wouldn't--couldn't get on without you."

John lets out a little hiccough of surprise that Roger could so clearly see into his heart; for how else would he have known exactly what to say to make his heart lift? John swallows and squeezes the drummer's hands tightly. "... Thank you," he whispers. "And Roger, I-- the reason I shouted at you in the first place was because you scared me. I thought for a second that fire was going to make me lose you, and I..."

"You bugged out," Roger confirmed with a tiny smile, his thumb stroking the top of John's hand. "Yeah, I should have figured that."

"And I tend to talk like a father, I guess, when I'm scared." John admits, bowing his head and still feeling shame as he recalls his reaction. "So. Can you forgive me?" 

Roger's eyes are soft as he lets go of John's hand to put his thumb under his chin, lifting the other's face. "Only if you forgive me first. I was an utter git to you, and I'm sorry."

John's face splits into the most enormous, genuine smile, and then because he can't resist: "No different from any other day," he says, and then as Roger gasps in shock that could turn into anger given half a chance, the bassist grabs him round the shoulders and pulls him in. 

Roger claps him on the back as they hug. "I really am sorry," he repeats, voice muffled in John's shoulder.

John rubs his back and claps his shoulders. "Roger, we're good," he speaks firmly as he relinquishes the other man and looks into his face again. "I promise. Now, what do we need to do for this paste to work on Freddie?"

Roger sniffles and then says "Ah, well, it needs to be layered on top of the rash, but we gotta spread it carefully so it won't irritate his skin."

"Okay," John replies easily and dips into the paste. "Here goes. Hold out your arm, please, Fred." 

Freddie does, beaming at them both, and John gently bends to coat his rash with the homemade cream, Roger following suit with the side of Freddie's face. He feels almost giddy with relief that he'd apologised and been forgiven, and hopes that this will send the day in a positive direction. Perhaps they can cure Fred of whatever ails him. One can always hope, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"...nothing close to the scare we had with Brian" = in 1974 Brian May got hepatitis and gangrene as a result of both a vaccination and an infection while on tour. It was a very frightening time for the band, as he might have needed to lose his arm due to the infection. He didn't, thankfully, and the rest of the band rallied around to be there for him.
> 
> *"a particular sort of club" = _Hot Space_ was, by all accounts, a difficult album to write. There were a lot of fights in the band about it, one of them being that "Freddie wanted the sound to be like you'd just walked into a gay club. I did not," Roger Taylor said in a spread in LIFE Magazine. 
> 
> *like 'Back Chat'-- = apparently some of the issues in this album caused songs to be written about certain members' frustrations. John wrote that particular song in anger at Brian, it is said.
> 
> So I have Roger being not only uncomfortable with that here but also sure of the fact that he has every right to get a song of frustration written about him. Poor dear boys; but they are brothers, and brothers fight.
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think of this :)


	5. Day Two, Night. Care and Loyalty

"We ought to watch a movie," Roger suggested, slapping at Freddie's hand as the man, appearing half-harlequined with white anti-itch paste applied onto his left arm and cheek, moves as if to scratch. "Since you've got this... VHS machine, Fred." Roger knew Freddie had a slight obsession with Japan once he saw the art and culture on their first tour there, but he honestly did not expect his friend to know about the newest electronic systems coming out of the country. 

And yet here they are. "There's a video rental store just down the road," Freddie tells him.

"Great!" Roger rubs his hands together gleefully.

"What should we watch?" John asks, bringing a tray of tea and biscuits into the living room and placing it on the coffee table. They had eaten his noodles several hours ago. Knowing Freddie's tastes, he adds "I don't know if there are any ballets or operas that have been recorded onto, well, other avenues." The bassist pours his friends some tea.

Freddie waves his hands about his face before taking the offered cup from John. "Oh I'll watch anything, darlings, that will keep me from thinking about this infernal itch. Augh!" Roger raises his eyebrows significantly as the singer appears about ready to scratch his face, but then his lips quirk in a smile as Freddie abstains, gulps tea, and then gasps "I just want out of this world for awhile."

"Dom and I saw something good on one of our early dates," the drummer says, leaning back on the couch and stretching his arms out luxuriously. "Or, well, we went to the cinema --I wasn't watching the screen too much." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Freddie smiles. 

"Well, what's the movie called, Rog?" John sighs, dumping a heaping spoonful of sugar into his friend's tea and handing over the cup. 

"Er..." Roger's smile has grown shifty as he takes the cup from Deacon. 

"Do you recall, or were you too busy snogging Dominique to notice?"

Freddie chokes on his tea. "Whoa, now," Roger's face lights up wickedly. "Dirty Deacy, mind in the gutter. I am SO proud!" John rolls his eyes and stirs honey into his own teacup. "I believe it was something called..." Roger pauses to increase the drama, sipping some of his drink before making a show of remembering. "Ah, that's right! _Star Wars_." Leaning in to nudge Freddie's shoulder, he adds "You'll love it, Fred-- the critics called it a 'space opera'."

***

Roger goes down to the video store to rent the movie, leaving Freddie and Deacy to their own devices for a short while.

A cream-and-orange cat saunters up to Freddie and meows. "Oh, Oscar, you're starved, aren't you? I must get you your supper." He stands but John stops him.

"You're sick, Fred. Let me." Freddie tried to pass him and go to the kitchen pantry anyway, but the bassist curls a strong hand around his forearm. "Fred," he says, and that's it; but it is enough to halt the singer's stubborn motion. "Tell me where the food is and I'll make it for them." He crouches down and rubs the head and back of Samson, who appears to have realised John saved his life, and is winding his furry body between Deacon's legs and rubbing up against his hand. Oscar comes over to get some loving as well the second he notices John petting Samson.

So Freddie explains about the special salmon that Delilah eats rather than sardines because she is a picky eater; while Frank and Samson will devour anything, even the disgusting wet food. Oscar is ever obedient and Romeo is the wild card. John locates all of the delicacies as Freddie lovingly expounds upon his pets' eating habits and follows his friend's directions precisely to make their meals. It is the engineer in him, honestly; and Freddie smiles, lips stretching round his teeth as he applauds. "You're as meticulous as Mary." John does a tiny flourishing hand gesture and bows, his brown hair abounce as he flashes a smile of his own. He then turns to fill the felines' water bowl. 

Mary.... The bright smile melts from Freddie's face and tears prick his eyes. How he wishes she was here. He feels an ache in his heart suddenly. Always. Though they love each other still, they had gone their separate ways in romance. He does not begrudge her, nor she him, but "It's a hard life to be true lovers together," he murmurs as he takes up his cup of tea once more. "...it's a long hard fight." Sipping and swallowing the liquid he adds "Oh, that's good."

John, having filled the water bowl now hears Freddie's whisper and looks over to see the expression on his friend's face. Held-back tears, quiet strength, and shy dignity--so different from the way he acted onstage, antithetical even to the ways he acts around Brian and Roger. He has let his guard down completely and John is the only one to see it. 

Rising on impulse, the younger man moves back to sit on the sofa and takes Freddie's hand. The other man squeezes his fingers tightly in wordless gratitude, and that is how Roger finds them when he returns.

***

"Got the film!" The drummer cries. "What did I miss?" Fred and John share a heartfelt glance full of emotion.

"Nothing but me feeding the cats and Fred coming up with possible song lyrics," John speaks up easily.

Roger grunts. "Well budge over." He strides across the room as the cats look up at him and flops down extravagantly between the two of them as Freddie lets go of John's hand. 

Roger throws his arms around both men and pulls them against his sides. Always exuberant with his physical care is Roger. The faint scent of smoke wafts off him --he had stayed outside for a cigarette so as not to potentially irritate Freddie's throat or skin or anything, seeing as he is sick. 

John gets up and turns on the television box, sliding the VHS tape Roger brought out of its case and turning on the VCR machine. Whirring clicks begin sounding and the word 'Tracking' appears on the upper left corner of the screen. After he puts the tape into the VCR, the bassist remains on the floor, watching with fascination. 

Freddie leans his head against Roger's soft feathery hair, both of them chuckling at the sight of John's expression. His face is always so open. "He's like a kid on Christmas morning and the film hasn't even STARTED yet!" 

"Let him bask, darling -- he does adore electrical things," Freddie whispers. 

"I know," Roger mutters back. "I vividly recall his homemade amplifier and its utterly ridiculous name."

Still facing away from them and watching the VCR and its connection to the television, "it was a great name," John retorts. "Intelligent and sophisticated!"

"Just like you," Freddie soothes, his own tone a trifle dry as Roger snorts. "You're wonderfully clever, Deacy darling. Now do come and join us, the picture's starting." John stands, pushing himself off the floor with the palms of his hands and bouncing once in place. He flicks off the light, grabbing a blanket and throwing himself across Roger's lap as pale-blue lettering appears in the centre of the black screen:

_A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away...._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"this... VHS machine" = JVC started in Japan and VHS tapes came to Europe and the States in the mid-70s. Freddie was apparently very taken with Japan when Queen went on tour there, even wearing a kimono onstage and purchasing Japanese art.
> 
> So it wasn't much of a leap for me to think Freddie probably knew about the latest technology from Japan, and I think Deacy as an electrical engineer would be very interested in how a VCR worked. Plus, _Star Wars (A New Hope)_ is a classic movie that came out the year Roger and Dominique got together, so I bet it's something they'd watch at the cinema...or not watch, as Roger alluded to ;)
> 
> *"It's a hard life to be true lovers together" = this song came out on Queen's 1986 album, but I figured Freddie's inspirations for song lyrics came at anytime, from anywhere
> 
> *"homemade amplifier and its utterly ridiculous name" = John actually made an amplifier with his background in electrical engineering, and he apparently called it 'AC/Deacy'. He's such a dork I love him
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think of this :D


	6. Day Three, Interlude. Brian.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian May is in America on a press junket for the _Hot Space_ tour.

"So. You're here, Brian, after your band's most recent U.S. tour. How do you think Queen can keep the fans on this continent happy? Due to the lesser success of this album, are you concerned about your group's future?"

Brian May sweeps his hand through his lengthy curls, blinking rapidly and shuffling his shoulders as the interviewer speaks. He wishes the boys were here; that Roger was next to him, or Freddie-- Rog would trade glances with him, jump in to help answer a question, or tell him to shut up if Brian got a little feisty. Fred would rub his arm or touch his lower back and soothe everyone in the room with that seemingly effortless Freddie Mercury charm. And John...well, he was always smiling and polite during interviews. His gentility and kindness would allow Brian to sit back in silence. 

But none of his lads are here to be a buffer. Brian is alone, and he would genuinely like to punch this interviewer in the face. The man appears so SMUG, too. Like he is waiting for Brian to say something like 'forget America' and the country's native musicians can fill the gap that Queen leaves. The guitarist takes a deep breath through his nose and steadies himself.

"Well, erm, Queen is experimental. We don't use any formula, really, to pump out songs, so our albums are multifaceted and nebulous. We get bored with ourselves very quickly. Quicker than anyone else does, I think, so we do something different every time, on every album. Not everyone is going to love it--" As Brian himself had not appreciated 'Back Chat' and its criticism aimed at him by John Deacon, but Fred had given him 'Soul Brother', so there's that. And the show must go on. "--but the show must go on. We do lots of different things and try new sounds. We work exceptionally hard, so the response to our next album will hopefully be loads better. Who knows?" He laughs a little, bouncing his right knee as it rests atop his left.

The interviewer, rather than backing off, jumps all over that. "But speaking of working hard, it seems that you are the only member of Queen working right now. You're on this press tour alone and the other members of your band have gone back to London. Why would they leave this all to you?"

Brian's ears are ringing as his heart begins to pound. _Because after being together so much and working in close quarters all these years, we know when to leave each other alone._ The tabloids would have a FIELD day if he said that. "They trust me to do this, do interviews, so that is why I'm staying in this country for a more extensive time period," Brian hears himself say. He presses his lips together. Why HAD they all gone back? He could use them right now more than ever. He needs to call. "...And we all four will be back to play on Saturday Night Live in September." _How is any of this your business?_ he dearly longs to ask. Where does the press get off? As far as the lanky guitarist is concerned, Queen may NOT return to America again. 

"Are you certain you will be able to work well together again after so much time apart? Particularly after the way the album _Hot Space_ was received?" The interviewer now asks bluntly.

Brian cannot take any more of this. He stands up, the legs of his chair screeching across the floor, and towers over the other man. Bright eyes boring into him, Brian continues to speak as calmly and politely as he can. His voice sounds gentle though his gaze is hard: "I came out and did this interview today, as well as the entirety of this press tour, out of professional duty and courtesy. I love what I do and the men that I do it with. Queen will continue and work out whatever issues might arise, and out of my professional and moral duties here, I'm telling you that you can piss off." Eyes flickering around at the camera people and executives in the room, as well as the interviewer whose face has now paled and whose eyes have bulged, Brian's facial expression grows smooth and easy. He dips his head in an elaborately polite gesture, a la his bandmate Deacy. "Thank you very much."

***

The guitarist strides out of the room and the building itself quickly to enter the clamourous streets of New York City and contemplates hailing a cab. Before he can muster himself up to do so, however, he is joined --well, more like halted-- by Queen's manager, Jim Beach. Miami. Freddie had christened him that eight or so years ago, and the name stuck, as did all of Freddie's loving epithets. It had been absolutely mad for this man, who started off as the band's accountant, to become their manager--but Beach had accepted the challenge, taken it on, and gone to it with a will. 

Right now, though, Brian is reminded this was not his choice originally; nor is it his forte. The older man's craggy features are pronounced with deeply-etched lines as he stands beside Bri and his eyes appear incredibly tired.

"Well. That certainly got bollocksed up," Miami says in the serious, heavy tone of voice typical to him, even in humourous situations. His level of dryness could rival even John's. Tipping his face ever-so-slightly toward the musician with respect, the manager adds "But you did a good job in there."

Brian squeezes the bony bridge of his nose between two fingers. Spots dance before his eyes. "Yeah, only in that I didn't belt the man," he murmurs. Lifting his eyes to Miami's, he drops his hand from his nose and touches the other's arm. "I am so sorry that you have to clean up this mess, Miami. It's an absolute trainwreck." The album, this tour, and now Brian is standing here actually questioning the loyalty of his band because of some pompous American prick. _Shit._ This is a disaster. "... I've got to call them," he adds. "Roger, Freddie --even John. We've got to fix all this. Or as much of it as we can." Stepping away from where he had leant against the outside wall of the press building and jerking a thumb back at its door, Brian's chuckle is rueful. "I don't suppose we can be sure that wanker inside doesn't have any pull with SNL?"

Beach's answering smile is just as tenuous. "I don't believe so, but who can tell how much outlet news reporters and television executives talk to one another in America?" He claps a hand on Brian's corded shoulder to reassure his client and friend. "... I'll find out, though."

Brian's smile is relieved now as he nods at his manager. Queen is damn lucky to have him. "Cheers, Jim. I'll be at the hotel; think it's time for me to have a long chat with the band." _We're still a band, still a band._ This is a mantra in Brian's head more than a thought.

Miami nods, seeing the turmoil behind the younger man's eyes. "I understand. Roger told me they've been crashing at Freddie's place." Squeezing Brian's shoulder, "Good luck," he adds in utter sincerity.

Brian's eyes crinkle as he nods at him, black hair bobbing. "Thank you. I'm likely going to need it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"We get bored with ourselves very quickly. Quicker than anyone else does, I think." = This is an actual quote from a 1982 interview when Brian and Roger talk about _Hot Space_. Apparently neither of them were satisfied with that particular album, but remained loyal to their band always
> 
> I've taken a few liberties in making the interviewer a lot more of an ass, having Brian alone, and doing it in New York. 
> 
> *"back for Saturday Night Live in September" = Queen performed live on SNL on the 25th of September, 1982
> 
> *"I'm telling you that you can piss off" = Brian is not averse to telling people off, however he does it in an incredibly polite manner that I wish I could learn! He reportedly walked out of several interviews in his time
> 
> *"this man, who had started off as their accountant" = Jim Beach fascinates me. He was actually Queen's accountant, and after the band parted ways with their manager John Reid, they convinced him to manage them. He stepped in and did it, and they never needed another manager after that


	7. Day Four, Early. I Have No Heart, I'm Cold Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie falls asleep and Brian makes a phone call.

Freddie has passed out on the sofa with John.

The three members of Queen had watched the entire science fiction film and Fred was enthralled by its special effects. "We need to do a video like this," he enthused about the dark expanse of space filled with stars and the sight of the camera panning down to show a small spaceship, chased by one far larger, flying towards a planet. His voice hushed into a wistful whisper then: "...Brian would love it."

"He would," Roger agreed with a huff and fond shake of his head. "Ruddy mad scientist."

And then John leaned forward with the blanket he'd tented over his head like Obi-Wan's Jedi robe and burst out "We can do a MOVIE like this, boys--a soundtrack. Those symphonic pieces, with your opera knowledge, Freddie--we can certainly write something like that!" His eyes are alight as Freddie and Roger look at one another without speaking. 

Then of a sudden John's countenance dimmed like a candle losing its flame. "Whenever Brian comes back. Oh, Bri--" his voice chokes off as he recalls their blazing studio spat during the making of their most recent album. His shoulders slump and head droops forward. "I never apologised to him for all those things I said and wrote..." John looks up again and in the stark light from the window and the television screen, his eyes shine with tears. "What if he won't forgive--or doesn't want--anything else to do with me?" 

Roger blinks, his eyes compassionate yet a trifle startled at John's emotion, though he also understands the potentiality of Brian's wrath. "Oh, darling," Freddie said, reaching over and curling his arm around John's shoulders, "he still loves you."

John let out what began as a high-pitched wail and ended as a muffled whimper, turning his face and burying it in Fred's chest, his boyish excitement over the film utterly extinguished. Freddie looks to Roger for support as he runs his fingers through the bassist's hair. 

Roger clears his throat and scoots closer. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Yeah, he does love you; and John, in all the years I've known him, Brian's had an exceptionally long fuse. He's able to think through and let things go." The blond's lips quirk upward in the beginnings of a smile. "Bri's a lot like Ben Kenobi in a way, mate. Patient and that." 

There is a sniffle as John stills and raises his head slowly out of Freddie's embrace. Roger thinks that he spots tear tracks on the other man's cheeks but can't be sure, and he definitely isn't going to point them out or ask. In his quinessentially dry manner the bassist responds, "...So you're telling me he's a wizard who's just a crazy old man." 

Roger bursts out laughing and Freddie beams a brilliant though tired smile. "That's it, darling. That's our Brian."

Fred had fallen asleep against John after that, and Roger now covers both the singer and the bassist in a blanket. 

Freddie's face shines bright in the moonlight and the paste to help his rash is flaking away. The drummer takes out the now-finished movie, careful to rewind it before also turning off the VCR and TV. He rises from Fred's couch with the tape in hand and tiptoes from the living room. He is preparing to put his coat on, has gone so far as to flip up its faun-coloured collar in preparation to go outside for a smoke and to take the video back--

\--And then the telephone rings.

***

It is nine-thirty in the evening in New York by the time Brian makes it back to his hotel room; and he'd showered, ate, and drank enough to fortify himself for a phone call. 

If he were calling anybody else at home this hour he would feel like an absolute arsehole because it's after one am in London. But this is Freddie Mercury he is calling; a man who practically invented the concept of burning the candle at both ends--at least in Brian's acquaintance and experience. Picking up the rotary phone handset beside his bed and listening to the echoing clicks and whirs and the beeping of a dial tone whilst turning the cool metal dial clockwise, Brian relaxes infinitesimally as he inputs the digits and waits for the call to be connected. He has done it now; started the ball rolling, implemented his plan.

He expects to hear something along the lines of _"You've reached the home of Freddie Mercury and his wondrous feline friends, darling. How are you tonight?"_ in a sultry purr.

But what Brian hears instead is: "This is Fred Mercury's residence, Roger Taylor speaking." 

"Rog, it's Brian."

The is silence over the line save for the hissing that accompanies a call. It is such an extended moment that Brian almost finds it in him to be nervous. His heart rises and feels like it is lodging in his throat, but then there is a huff of surprised amusement from Roger. His high voice holds no animosity, however, as he says conversationally "...Your ears must've been burning. We were just talking about you."

"And I you," Brian chuckles slightly before his voice slows. "I took part in an... interesting interview this afternoon, to say the least."

The utter exhaustion in Brian's tone exhorts Roger to enquire of his friend "Are you okay, Bri? How're things going over there?"

"You mean now that the tour is over?" Bri's ever-gentle voice contains an undercurrent that Roger definitely understands and relates to, just as he understands what it takes for his bandmate to voice his next bone-weary words: "It's exhausting. I can't wait to get home, Rogie." After a painful pause on Brian's end, he asks in a hopeful but worried way, wondering how they all feel and whether or not Queen really CAN stick together: "...But enough about me, how are you and the lads doing?"

Roger's heart drops. He has been regretting the need to say this as soon as he answered the call, but this is Brian. He needs to know. "John and I are good, but Freddie's sick, Bri. It started three nights ago."

There is a sharp intake of breath on Brian's end. _Oh, no._ "What -- what is it? What's he got, and how bad?"

Roger shifts the phone to cradle it against his shoulder as his hand is cramping up from clutching the handset tightly. "We aren't completely sure. He's been having headaches and nausea, and the day before yesterday he got a rash. Right now he and John are sleeping--"

"--Not me anymore, just him." John Deacon's quiet voice emanates from the shadowed door to the living room as he comes shuffling into the kitchen where Roger is. He carries the empty teapot and used cups to the sink and turns on the water to wash them. "...Is that Brian?" Because honestly who else would be calling at this hour? Not Veronica, as he had told her he would be at Freddie's for at least a couple more days. And Dominique would wait to say whatever she was going to say to Roger until he got home.

"John?" Brian's voice asks.

"Yeah," Roger replies to them both as he hops up to sit on the counter, hands braced on its top and chin bracing the phone against his ear and shoulder. "How's Fred?" After shuffling his behind and situating himself, Roger tips the phone receiver away from his face a little bit. John obediently leans over and raises his voice so that Brian can hear what he has to say.

"He's conked right out, but now there are these--lumps on his face."

Brian feels panic rising in a dreadful wave through his chest and throat. "Lumps?"

John speaks matter-of-fact. "Yes. Can't quite tell in the dark, and I wasn't about to turn on the light and wake him, but...they look rather squishy. Almost like blisters." John waves one hand, throwing drops of water free as he punctuates his next words for Roger's benefit. "They're all over the side of his face, and I think on his arm where he had the rash."

Roger lets out an audible gasp as he realises the possibilities are narrowing on what Fred is sick with. He needs to look at the pustules himself in order to be certain, but.... He hears Brian speaking to him as if from far away. The other man's voice is loud and worried, though it sounds muffled due to the roar that has begun rushing through the drummer's ears. "Rog? Roger, are you still there? Talk to me, mate."

Roger makes a wrenching noise. "I've got to go and check on him. Talk to Brian, John. Bri, I'll be back." And Roger thrusts the heavy phone at John as he leaps off the counter and races out of the kitchen.

"Erm." John swallows hard and clutches the phone with both hands, knuckles jutting out as he slowly, shakily raises the set to his ear and mouth. _Dammit, Roger._ How could he have done this to him after what John had confessed earlier? John knows it is because Rog is worried for Freddie, and Brian is too, now. That calms him down and he continues speaking, hopefully to help. "Hullo Brian."

"Deacy," Brian surprises himself with the palpable rush of affection he feels that suffuses his voice with warmth as he speaks the younger man's nickname. He has been alone for so long, thinking (and talking) about the album and the boys, that honestly even if John is still frustrated with Brian's perfectionistic intensity, well, he has every right to be. Yet Brian is not angry about John's musical diatribe any longer --life is far too short. So his tone of voice is sincere and gentle as he asks "How have you been?"

John is a wreck. He clutches the phone against his face and swallows hard, breathing shallowly to stop himself from breaking down the way he'd done earlier, on Freddie's _lap_ , for goodness' sake. "I've...been better, honestly." His words are halting but their sentiment is true. "Of course I'm not sick like Freddie--least, not in the same way," he amends quickly.

He can tell Brian is really truly _listening_ to him. That gentle voice asks "What do you mean, John?" In the tone he uses when talking about science; that loving and excited timbre, like he genuinely wants to hear and understand what the other man is trying to say. And John cannot handle it. After everything, the spats and the glares and the fact that he had been miffed enough to have written a bloody SONG about how he wasn't scared of Brian or his nit-picking ways --this is utterly absurd. 

"I'm sick of myself, Brian," he bursts out. The floodgates have opened. "Of feeling bottled up all the time. Like if I'm angry at you, I should just TELL you, but instead I wrote a bleeding song about it and we haven't talked in ages, and--I'm sorry, mate. I'm sick to death of it. Should've told you before, but I didn't, and..." His voice trails off for a moment and comes back sounding creaky. "I'm just sore and sorry. Been that way for months." He gulps and blinks hard, hearing nothing for a moment but his own heartbeat.

"I am too, John." Brian's voice comes out of the buzzing, humming silence on the phone line like a lifeline, a glowing golden mote of brightness and warmth even as his tone is dark and heavy. "I've thought alot while I've been on this press tour, and on the actual tour as well. I know I can be an arse at times." He sighs and John smiles though his friend cannot see him. "High-minded, impatient, perfectionistic. And you--"

"--I'm petty as all hell," John returns, wrapping the thick phone cord around his finger. "I had Freddie sing things I couldn't even tell you, because they weren't true." He pulls the cord so tight it cuts off circulation for a second, so he releases his hand and watches the blood rush back. "You did get to me with everything you said because I care what you think. I care about you."

John's words hang in the air like plumes of smoke, crackling through the phone line like fire. John wishes he had a drink. Or a cigar. Or both. Man, he could really use something right now, but he has to focus. _Come on, Deacy. Brian's talking._ He now hears the guitarist say "--I never want you to feel like you can't talk to me. I know I have my own way of doing things, but I need people in my way to do what I can't do, or tell me what works and doesn't work. I need you to keep me on track, John. Hell, I just need you."

Both men sigh into the silence and then John breaks it with, "So the press tour is rough, eh?"

Brian's spirit lifts at the conversational tone and change in subject. His breath hisses between his teeth in relief. He is glad he and John got those sentiments off their chests. "Oh, Deacy, it's the worst. The absolute pits. I'm not nearly so kind as you; told someone interviewing me to piss off today."

John's eyes bulge in shock and horror. "No!"

"Yes," Brian says rueful. "I lost my temper and walked out. Feel badly about it now, after, but can't do anything." 

John whistles in awe. "Walked out, wow. I see you're taking cues from Roger." Deadpan he adds "Nicely done."

Brian laughs. "Only thing that'd be more like Rog is if I called the man a bastard before I left." Brian leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, the fingers of one hand rubbing his forehead. "...But then Miami would still be picking up the pieces."

"How is Miami?" John asks. "Loving this life, I'm sure."

"The man ought to be canonised," Brian says firmly. "Think you can do something about that?"

John grins. "I'll get right on it." They both guffaw together this time, and John savours the sound and feeling of it as he turns his head. Alarm bells begin going off as he sees Roger stagger into the kitchen again, moving jerkily. His eyes look red and John is instantly concerned. No, terrified. "Roger, what is it?" He holds the phone between them and extends his hand. 

The drummer comes up to the counter dragging his feet as if he has no strength left in them. His callused fingers are shaking as he curls them around John's. That really worries the bassist; if Roger has lost his buoyancy and control, something awful has happened. Fred's condition can't be that bad, can it?

"It looks like Fred's got shingles," Roger says after a moment. He clenches his other fist and squeezes John's hand tightly as the bassist holds the phone between them so Brian can hear too. "And he shouldn't, I mean, he's too young--shingles normally come only when you've got a weak or compromised immune system; when you're ELDERLY!" Roger is shaking his head, clutching his hair now with one hand, eyes wide. "It doesn't make sense. _He shouldn't have it._ "

"Can we get him any treatment?" John asks.

Roger shrugs, appearing listless. "It's far enough along now, him already having the rash, and now the blisters--I think we'll just have to wait it out, for them to crust over and..." His light eyes lock on John's, helpless. "...I don't know what to do."

"I do," Brian's tone is the epitome of strength, of firmness as it crackles out of the phone receiver in that moment. "I'm coming home."

"Brian, no--" Roger's voice is reedy, almost gone. "Can you even do that?"

"Well I'm going to, Rogie. I have to, you all need me. Freddie needs me, and I'm not going to sit through a fucking useless press tour when I should be helping my band!" His voice is strident. "I'll get Miami to help me book a flight tomorrow." He gets out of bed, long legs unbending like a jack-in-the-box, and starts to pace. "No, tonight. I'll get a flight to Heathrow, we can use our royalties to pay off the rest of the interviews and get Fred some medicine. Do something good with this absolute mess we've got."

John smiles. Brian May is one stubborn bastard, and they're lucky to have him. Roger nods but can't find his voice again, so it is John who says for both of them "Thanks Bri."

The guitarist's voice wobbles for the first time in this conversation. "Of course. My brothers need me."

They all sign off and say good-bye or risk bawling into the phone. Besides, they have already racked up quite a bit of cost for the length of their conversation. May have to use their royalties to pay for THAT. 

John finishes rinsing out the teacups and the pot, and he and Roger carry Freddie into the bedroom. They can wait until the sun comes up tomorrow to make decisions about anything; and hopefully for Brian. They need him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"we need to do a video like this" = this is my cheeky nod to Queen's music video for 'Play The Game' which starts with a microphone falling through space and being snatched up by Freddie. 
> 
> I wondered why they would choose that particular piece of imagery, panning down from the stars, and realised I'd seen something like it before--in, you guessed it, _Star Wars_. (I have no idea if they got the idea from the film but simply HAD to imagine it). The song itself came out in 1980 on their album _The Game_ but the video was filmed a little later and so I messed with the timeline just a bit to talk about it obliquely here, which I hope is forgivable.
> 
> *"We can do a MOVIE like this, boys" = Queen recorded the soundtrack for a quinessentially eighties sci-fi film, _Flash Gordon_
> 
> *"should be canonised" "I'll get right on that" = my little nod to Deacy being Catholic
> 
> *"shingles normally come only when you've got a weak or compromised immune system; when you're ELDERLY!" = this is true, but Freddie did contract shingles during his flu. One of the reasons the virus would appear in someone his age is because people suffering from HIV/AIDS have a compromised immune system


	8. Day Four, Late. I Clothed Myself in Your Glory and Your Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie wakes to blisters.
> 
> This is gonna be gross, I will be describing shingles grossness so WARNING FOR GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF ILLNESS BELOW
> 
> Also Roger has a mild bout of panic so please be warned.

Freddie doesn't know what is going on, just that Roger is pale and abnormally quiet and John is being secretive and watching the door. 

His itching is slightly more bearable today, only because he had rubbed at his face once he awoke and felt something give, pop, like bubbles; and suddenly he feels liquid oozing over his face and down his neck. Freddie hauled himself upright and ran to look at himself in the bathroom mirror as Roger nearly retched and Deacy's features took on an expression of curiously fixed rigidity. 

Freddie turns on the lights and stands before the mirror to see pustules, blisters. They are white-yellow and several have popped from pressure and are secreting pus down his cheek. 

"Augh, I look hideous!" Freddie gasps, only to see a pale lesion on his tongue, feeling strangely rough but puffy as well whenever he closes his mouth. Carefully he tries to dab the slime away, and yelps with pain as well as dismay as more blisters explode. Roger cannot add more baking soda paste onto his skin because of the blisters' tenderness, and because if he looks at them for too long he feels like he is going to throw up. 

So Fred gives up on the paste and sinks into the bathtub to try and wash them along with himself.

***

Taking a bath does not work out as planned; Roger hears screeching and opens the bathroom door to see pus and blood colouring the bathwater around Fred, and his helpless dark eyes flash in stark contrast to the gleaming pustules. 

The drummer's eyes bulge and he feels his stomach lurch. He is pathetic and he knows it, but runs to the opposite side of the house anyway, gasping inarticulately in his disgust at the blisters and at himself as Freddie pleads for someone to help. 

John goes to him, thank God; his features are set and calm as he enters the bathroom. There is a knock on the front door. Roger turns his head toward it but cannot make himself move. That doesn't matter as the spare key is utilised and the door is opened to reveal a wild-haired, wide-eyed, winded Brian.

The tall man's hair swings as he enters and puts his guitar case and luggage down. His eyes light on the drummer who had been bent over at the waist, elbows resting against his knees, but now leaps up, runs, and grabs tightly onto his friend. "Oh, I missed you, Brian." Roger growls from a paper-dry throat as he presses his face into the other's neck. "I've missed you so fucking _much_."

Brian's long arms come around his friend and squeeze Roger back. The drummer buries his face into Brian's hair now, his breaths coming in gasps and chokes that he does not recognise as panic or sobs until Brian rubs circles on his back and mutters "Breathe, Rogie. Come on, that's it. Just breathe with me, one, two, three. I'm here, I'm right here. There now."

Roger feels his heartbeat slowing and his breaths evening out. He has very nearly calmed down completely when Brian pulls back with hands grasping Roger's shoulders in a grip like a vise, and in a voice as cold as the farthest reaches of space, he raps out "Why in the hell haven't you called a doctor?!"

"He was so bad--" Roger squeaks, "feeling nauseous and itching, I didn't want to make him go out to a clinic; and the symptoms appeared so bloody _fast_ one night after the other--" _Oh, shit._

Brian is shaking his head, black curls whispering against his collar and neck as he stares his bandmate down. "Roger, what were you thinking?"

"Obviously I wasn't!" Roger explodes, shoving himself backwards away from Brian, hands slamming against the taller man's chest. He doesn't need this; he already feels badly enough. "I wasn't, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I thought I remembered enough of my medical training to help Fred! I just wanted to take care of him, after the tour, going to all those clubs, with the stripping on my birthday, and..." The stocky blond chokes on his words and stops, lifting his hands above his head and flinging them outward with a bitter expression. "I just wanted to take care of him after all that. There, Bri, that's it. Happy now?"

"No," Brian's eyes grow big and sorrowful. "Fred was spiraling on that tour," he murmurs. "...we all were." Roger's jaw works and he looks away but does not deny it. _That damn album._ Brian steps forward with long fingers outstretched, to placate or to physically take the drummer's hand, Roger has no idea. But Bri is standing there with tears in his eyes and feet shuffling in discomfiture and worry. And then, "I'm sorry," Brian utters, the words soft yet clear. "I should have been here for you. For all of you."

Roger rolls his now-bleary eyes. Brian is such an idiot; he HAD to stay in America for the press tour, and it doesn't matter that he was gone so long, just that he is here now. And they're going to get Fred to a bloody doctor. "You're here now," he scoffs out. "Don't be stupid." _That's all that matters._ Reaching out to take his friend's hand and squeezing it, Roger jerks his head and beckons. They are all together again, and he feels relief washing over him.

Brian squeezes his fingers back and graces the drummer with a gentle look and a nod. "Let's go take care of Fred."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"to see pus and blood" = Full disclosure: I don't know that shingles blisters explode that spectacularly, but I felt that Roger's visceral reaction was necessary.
> 
> *"after the tour, going to all those clubs, and the stripping on my birthday" = by all accounts the _Hot Space_ tour in America was wild and crazy. Freddie went out to a lot of clubs with Roger, and there was apparently stripping going on at Roger's 29th birthday party. For more information there are books on Freddie along with the LIFE Magazine article that I have previously mentioned.
> 
> This was going to be the last chapter unless readers want something else; I asked and they delivered comments :) Many many many thanks-- and as always, thank you so much for reading!


	9. Day Four and Just Before Five. Save Me, Save Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John helps Freddie with his bath and the other boys decide where and when to go see a doctor. This begins concurrently with the middle of the last chapter.
> 
> WARNING for shingles grossness again  
> But John is also a paternal sweetheart which hopefully makes up for it :)

John goes into the bathroom --after Roger exits it in haste-- to see Freddie with a miserable set to his broad, stocky prizefighter's shoulders as he stands in his claw-footed bathtub. Water is beading up on his body and dripping from the dark hair of his chest and limbs; as well as from the glaring --almost _glowing_ \-- white pustules on his cheek and arm. Fred lifts his face to John's, expression suffused with a relieved and grateful brightness upon seeing him that instantly morphs into something like horror. "Deacy, stop," he whispers. "Darling, are you okay to do this? To make me tea and dab paste on my arms is one thing, but--"

Gently stepping over to the bath and folding a towel to place on the floor alongside it, John rolls up his shirtsleeves, utterly businesslike. "Don't trouble yourself, Fred. I had chicken pox when I was seven, so what you've got won't infect me. And as for this," he waves a hand at Freddie's unclothed form, "...I have children, and have dealt with practically every sort of sickness and amount of nakedness that there is. You aren't showing me anything I haven't seen before." Freddie blinks. Ordinarily a raunchy remark would be on his tongue, but not tonight. "Now, let's run you a new bath, shall we?" 

Kneeling atop the towel he just laid down, John reaches into the frothy cooling water congealed with bodily fluids and pulls the plug, allowing the water to be siphoned away. While that is occurring, Deacy grabs a clean wash cloth and goes to the sink, dousing it in hot water. "Go on and sit, Fred," he instructs his friend, and Freddie obediently complies, goosepimples popping up on his skin and vying with the blisters as he rests his bare bum in the porcelain tub. 

John leans in and drapes the warm wet cloth around his neck before re-stopping the drain and refilling the tub. "Let's see if we can do this...," John mutters and brings another cloth that he wets and wraps around Freddie's blistered arm. Gently, with a circular motion, he scrubs his friend's skin clean, pressing lightly so that no more of the blisters will explode. He does the same with Freddie's face oh-so-gently.

Wringing out the cloth and lathering Fred's skin with soap, John now rubs the washcloth across his friend's entire back. Freddie sighs with his eyes closed, enjoying the warmth as well as the physical care John is taking of him. It has been so long since he has been touched like this, if ever. He lets out a murmur of contentment when Deacon asks if he is all right.

"Yes. Thank you, John."

"Of course." John hears raised tones outside of the bathroom now, and can tell one of the voices most definitely belongs to Roger. The other, well, if Brian's estimate of when his plane would land at Heathrow was correct when he called them back that morning at eight to tell them he had booked it... Goodness, he hopes it was right and that Brian is here. They could use his steady head and clear scientific thought processes. Not to mention that his presence would undoubtedly be helpful to Freddie. 

John feels his friend's comfort level lessening now, and the water is once again growing cold. He leaves off on cleaning Fred's skin to look into the eyes of his friend, and can tell that something is going on. Fred has gone still and then he abruptly throws his arm forward, shutting off the bathwater and letting it drain from the tub.

Freddie feels a deep sense of weariness, and the chill of the water seems to have made its way into his very bones. Something about this illness is really worrying to him. He sucks in a shuddering breath and John--dear intuitive Deacy-- asks what is wrong.

"...Aside from the obvious, I mean," John's eyes twinkle as he speaks drily, holding out a fluffy towel for Freddie to dry himself off with. "This sickness you've got certainly isn't a dream come true."

"Far more like a nightmare, darling," Freddie intones, daintily standing upright and stepping out of the tub with the towel wrapped round his waist. He slips and almost staggers, losing his balance on the slippery floor tiles, but the bassist is there immediately holding him up and wrapping strong arms around his still-damp shoulders.

Freddie pulls on his dressing gown from where it had been hanging, cinching its sash around his waist. He licks his lips and fiddles with the silky cloth, not looking directly at Deacy. "Do you ever get the sense that...time is slipping away from you, John? That all of your actions, mm" he sucks on his teeth and takes a quick breath "--mean something, but not what you wanted them to?" A crease forms between Deacon's eyebrows and Freddie flaps his arms. "Never mind, it's probably just the blisters talking. Or I'm going slightly mad."

John blinks slowly, not deterred by his friend's attempt to brush him off. "What are you saying, Freddie? Are you thinking of any actions in particular?" His question was not random, of that much John is certain. Fred's always got something on his mind, even if it is difficult to explain; there is no such thing as a random query from him.

Freddie sighs and cinches his sash tight, reaching over and ruffling John's fluffy brown hair in an attempt at assurance that ends up comforting Freddie himself more than John. He thinks about the wild days and wilder nights on tour for their last album, of volatile interactions that drained his energy more than the longest concert set could do; and how his boys seemed to be slipping away from him like snatches of songs or the remnants of shadows in a brightly-lit space. And how he needs someone to be with him, to stave off the bitter loneliness of the eventual night when those snatches of songs will slip away and disappear forever. Even if that someone is not the kindest. "In America," he answers now, "on tour I got this feeling...," The rich tone of his voice wavers and then tapers off into silence.

Yet John simply nods and picks up on the tail-end of Freddie's thought, bless him. "...which is why you wanted to come home."

"And good thing I did, too!" Freddie bursts out loudly now. "Can you IMAGINE me sick like this on tour? Ugh." He shudders at the mere suggestion. "The press would hate me."

"I dunno, I rather think they would have a field day," comes a familiar tenor voice from beyond the bathroom door. "They certainly had quite a good time railroading ME."

Freddie's breath catches and his eyes sparkle with shocked delight. " _Brian?_ Brian Harold May, is that really you?"

A chuckle at Fred's dramatics emanates now. "Yes, Fred, it's me. Are you decent?"

"Always for you, dear!" Freddie flings open the door to see his tall friend, black hair wild round his face as he stands beside Roger, their hands intertwined. 

Roger lets go as John mutters "you can hug him if you've had chicken pox" and Brian nods, squinting and cocking his head in the briefest moment of confusion before Freddie is upon him, holding him tightly with his unblistered arm and pressing his sound cheek to Brian's chest. Bri drops his face to kiss the top of his friend's just-washed hair as he hugs Freddie close, letting out a breath of relief. 

"How wonderful to see you, Brian my darling." Backing away now with a smile, Freddie has forgotten about his illness and the weariness he had expressed moments ago. "But how can you be here? You were on a press tour."

"You're more important, Fred," Brian says, clapping his friend's shoulders with his long-fingered hands and then running the fingers of one hand through his own hair in a futile attempt to pat it down. "Besides, the press was getting bored with me anyway."

"What a surprise," murmurs Roger in a soft sardonic tone. He raises his chin and voice a bit as Brian glances at him. "I mean, of course because we're going to blow them all away with our next album." He grins as Deacy nods over at him with a smile of his own. Nice save on that one.

***

John goes into the kitchen to rustle up some food; Roger following in an attempt to wheedle the bassist into getting some Chinese takeaway or something for them all now that Brian has come back to the fold. "Come on, John, let's live a little!"

"Do YOU want to call every place til we can find a vegetarian option, Roger?" John shoots back. "I'll just cook something for Bri here, and you can eat it as well. Oh, stop whining, I'll make us some coffee. You'll want sugar, yes?"

"One and three-seventh sugars," Roger retorts. "Please."

"One and three sugars?"

"Three- _sevenths_."

"... You're impossible," John sighs.

Brian's lips lift in a smile as he hears Rog's words and that smile turns into a little giggle at John's reply. How he has missed this. He focuses more closely on Freddie now, whose skin appears abnormally pale as he stands beside Brian and tries to hold back a cough.

"How are you feeling, Fred?" Brian asks quietly. "...Rog and I talked a bit, and we're going to get you in to see a doctor tomorrow morning--even if we have to bribe the receptionist at the clinic so they'll let us in." He puts a hand on Freddie's shoulder and nudges him towards the couch. "Come and sit down."

Freddie does. Allowing Brian to care for him and boss him about feels wonderful right now. "I know that you aren't going to take 'no' for an answer, so I won't even argue with you about the doctor, darling." He settles down into the couch cushions, movements as graceful as ever yet also slightly slower. He seems to be taking immense care, as if his body could break.

He looks so incredibly fragile, somehow; and that scares Brian more than words can express. _I should have been here. Should have been more attentive on tour; firmer to him when I said he ought to get some rest. Should've said something kinder than "You really need to slow down, Fred, or you're going to burn yourself out."_ Freddie had drawn himself up primly after what Bri HAD said, got all self-righteous and bitchy, and Brian wrote his concern off as a bad job.

Clearly, he shouldn't have.

Now Brian does not hesitate to reach for a blanket, pick it up and tuck it around Freddie's shoulders before flopping onto the sofa next to him. All of his adrenaline-fueled energy drains away immediately, leaving the guitarist feeling as exhausted as Freddie looks. The sick man leans against his shoulder and Brian lets his head drop to rest on top of Freddie's, his curls enveloping the singer's face in a curtain of midnight. It makes Freddie feel warm and safe, and he pats his friend's closest arm, murmuring "It's good to have you home, Brian."

For an endless moment it seems as though the other is not going to answer; perhaps he has already dropped off to sleep. But then Brian shifts and draws Freddie to him, voice a quiet rumble, almost a groan, rising out of his leanly-muscled chest: "'S wonderful to be back, Fred. 've missed you and the boys."

By the time John and Roger return to the greatroom with sustenance and coffee in hand, their bandmates are curled into each other on the sofa, fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *prizefighter's shoulders = Freddie boxed as a young man and retained that strong physique, so I alluded to it here
> 
> *"if you've had chicken pox" = the shingles virus is the same thing that causes chicken pox, so a MISCONCEPTION is if one's body has suffered through chicken pox, they have antibodies to shingles. I've learned this is NOT the case, which is going to cause some drama in the next chapter...
> 
> *"vegetarian option" = I've heard it said that Brian May, along with being an animal activist (going along with that, really) is a vegetarian
> 
> *"One and three-sevenths" = there is a clip from one of Queen's studio sessions where somebody offers to get coffee. Brian asks for some, and then Roger asks for one and 3/7 sugars in his. I have no idea how he would get that, hence having John call him impossible here
> 
> As always, feel free to tell me what you think :)


	10. Day Five, Daybreak. How I Loved You, How I Cried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie is rushed to an emergency clinic.
> 
> Warning for INTENSE MEDICAL SCARE including side effects of illness--intense pain and temporary blindness.

Freddie Mercury wakes up screaming. 

He may have written once about hurling through the sky at two hundred degrees, but definitely does NOT feel like Mr. Fahrenheit whilst on the ground and yet somehow still being engulfed by flames.

A heaviness settles atop his shoulders and then he shakes-- as if the Earth is cracking beneath him, ready to swallow him whole. He shouts and begins thrashing from side to side, trying desperately to break free but the shaking continues. "Fred, FRED! Wake up, Freddie, it's me! It's Brian, hang on, mate."

Freddie arches his back. His skin feels like it is on fire, and he gasps and opens his eyes to see a fuzzy cloud obscuring clear sight; there is a paleness, as if colours are leeching away. A pallid oval swims into view and a writhing dark halo surrounds it. "Oh, begone!" He moans. "It hurts, it _burns!_ I can't see-- Please--" 

Brian is panicking; he had woken up to see the lightening sky and feel Freddie curled up against him on the couch, where they both must have dozed off. Everything was fine, the sun was rising and he had been watching it and the peaceful face of Freddie, and then his friend had started shrieking.

Roger runs in from the bedroom, followed closely by John; the former looks like he hasn't slept a wink in ages, has grey circles beneath his eyes. John's hair looks as though a group of pigeons has been nesting in it. Both men are absolutely terrified. "Get him up, get him up, here--"

"--Wrap him in a blanket, quick! We don't want him to burst all those blisters." Fred moans as John helps Brian pull the blanket around him. Roger stands mute and shaking, unable to handle the sight and sound of his friend in so much pain. "Brian, what happened?" Deacy demands.

The guitarist shakes his head frantically back and forth. "I don't know, I don't know what happened; he was sleeping peacefully and then--and then he just..." Freddie cries out again as Brian pulls him, bundled up tightly, into his arms. 

"Well what the bloody hell are we _waiting_ for??" Roger finds his voice and lets it out in a bellow. "We've got to get him to a doctor!" He has grabbed his coat and Brian slides on his clogs before grabbing a pair of pants and jumper for Freddie; John, with great presence of mind, picks up his wallet and makes sure he has banknotes within. 

The bassist pours some dry food into a communal cat bowl and says "It's urgent, sorry. You'll all have to eat dry food today" to the pussies. Rog mercifully remembers to grab the keys as he runs across the kitchen to yank the front door wide. Brian ducks his head and holds Freddie tight as he exits the house. Roger, fumbling to lock the door behind them, drops the keys after doing so and swears. John lets out a piercing whistle to hail a cab, and they pile in for the ride to the nearest emergency medical clinic. 

***

Freddie has quieted now, mercifully; his bandmates hope it means only that he is not in so much pain as he was upon waking. 

The cabbie keeps glancing backward as John, holding Fred's legs across his lap, carefully pulls a loose pair of pants over them. Brian holds Fred's head and torso still, as still as he can, hand to his friend's forehead and face white and woebegone.

"Just keep your eyes on the road, you tosser!" Roger snarls, blond tresses flying as he shoots his arm and face forward. "And for God's sake, step on it!"

The gas pedal is floored, whether due to the fact that Roger's face is beet-red and he is practically screaming now, or because of the pustules very visible on Freddie's skin, Brian doesn't know, and doesn't care. He is just glad when they stop and Roger is scrambling out, holding the door for him. "I've got you, Freddie, just hang on," he murmurs as he slides himself and his scrunched lengthy limbs across the seat and out of the car. 

John leans into the front window of the car and pays the cabbie --always prepared and thinking ahead, bravo John; Brian could kiss him for that-- and then the four men are entering a brick building with metal double doors and pale walls, the vague scents of cleaning supplies and medical...things wafting around them. 

Brian steps forward, clutching Freddie close, and utters, his voice thin and trembling, "Is there a doctor here?"

Luckily, it is early in the morning so there are not too many people in the waiting area to witness this sight. One can only imagine what the headlines would say if Queen was recognised here. There is a desk with phones and files across from the clinic entrance and a receptionist is on hand. She picks up a phone and dials in a number to speak to someone in the rear of the clinic. Stopping for a moment she holds the receiver beside her chest, eyes rising and meeting Brian's. "There is; now what seems to be the trouble, love?"

Roger whips toward her with teeth bared and spits "What do you THINK--" But John puts a hand out to him, curling it placatingly around the drummer's forearm.

Brian speaks up as calmly and quickly as he can: "Erm, our friend got sick on... what night was it?"

"--Four nights ago." John's tone is subdued. "We thought it was a stomach flu at first--"

"But then he got a rash the next afternoon; and blisters, you can see some of them on his face, right there!" Intones Roger sharply.

Brian tilts Freddie's head to show her the pustules, and the sight of them makes the receptionist suck in a breath. "...and this morning he started screaming in pain and said he couldn't see."

The receptionist tenses and lifts up her phone. "Get someone out here right now. Doctor Fisher?" She presses a button to add a call. "We could use your help with an orbital matter, STAT."

Roger's eyes are filled with tears and his voice cracks in terror. "... What's wrong with him?"

The woman hangs up her phone and says in an attempt to be soothing, "We're going to find out, hon."

The doors beside her desk open, and two people emerge--a young auburn-haired woman with large eyes and a middle-aged man in a suit, businesslike, no-nonsense. He looks at Fred's face and says "Alright we need a swab of his throat for lab work and a blister bath. Get him into an examination room, Sheila. If you gentlemen will all follow me." His eyes pan from Brian to Roger to John. "I assume that you don't want to leave him?"

"You assume right," Roger grunted. John nods. 

Brian strides up to Sheila; with her single-coloured outfit and her marching orders, she appears to be a nurse. Voice soft and gentle even as his legs are shaking with worry, he inquires, "Do you need me to carry him?"

She sends him a tiny thankful smile that also telegraphs sympathy. "Yes please. Come this way." They pass through the doors and walk by little rooms that look rather like office cubicles. Or what Brian would imagine a cubicle to look like. He glances back at John and Roger as he goes. John's pale set face and Rog's haunted eyes are the last bits of them he sees before the door closes.

Nurse Sheila is incredibly efficient; she opens the door to one of the little rooms and there is an examination table that she wipes down with disinfectant before covering with a spotless white sheet. "Put him down there," she instructs Brian, and gathers up a pack of swabbing tools. "Now we'll need to open his mouth." Brian gently settles Freddie onto the table, his hands bracing his friend against his own chest even as Fred sits. His body stirs as Brian speaks.

"We've got you at a clinic, Fred," he murmurs. "And they're going to take care of you. Open your mouth now." Sheila walks over with a wooden stick about ten centimetres long. It has a cotton puff on one end, which she rubs inside Freddie's cheek as he obediently opens his mouth. His breaths are coming ragged as Brian backs away just a bit to let the nurse have space enough to do her work. 

"Brian, why can't I see?" 

Brian's heart drops into his clogs. "I dunno, Fred, but we're going to find out." He looks over at the nurse as she closes up a bag around the swab to send it to the lab. "...Right?"

"Right." The petite woman comes right up to Freddie and puts a gloved hand on his unblistered arm. "Fred, is it? I'm your nurse, Sheila, and I'm going to take excellent care of you. We'll need to clean those blisters first, okay? Are you all right with that?" 

Freddie swallows hard but does his best to nod and smile. "Please. Do whatever you must to fix me, dear. Brian--" his dark eyes are huge, scanning the small room but not locking onto his friend. Not able to. The fear in his face breaks Brian's heart.

"I'm still here, Fred. I'm right beside you." He takes Freddie's hand.

His friend squeezes it and then lets go. "Go check on the other boys," he murmurs. "I'm sure that Roger is bouncing off the walls by now." 

Brian chokes out a laugh. "I don't doubt it." He bows his head, dark curls touching Freddie's hair as he leans in close. "Are you sure?" 

"Yes, darling, go and look after them." He turns toward the sound of a sterile packet ripping open. "I will be in the most capable hands with Nurse Sheila here." He smiles that charming Freddie Mercury smile, and Brian looks from him to the nurse, who gives the guitarist a reassuring nod.

"... I'll be just outside, Fred," Brian promises as he strides to and stops for a moment at the door. "None of us are going anywhere."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hurling through the sky at two hundred degrees; does NOT feel like Mr. Fahrenheit = references to the Queen song 'Don't Stop Me Now'
> 
> This is gonna be intense for a bit, but things will turn out okay I promise <3
> 
> I love comments :)


	11. Day Five, Midmorning. Nothing But A Sham, It Seems.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys learn about a few medical misconceptions in what is going on with Freddie and how they've been affected.
> 
> WARNING for phobia of needles/vaccinations described below

"What the hell are you prattling on about, Doctor?!" Roger Taylor spits. This is totally ridiculous. He KNOWS that Freddie has shingles; the symptoms are there and he did actually go to medical school in preparation for being a dentist despite the fact that he is now a rock star, thank you very much. 

But it's doubtful that this doctor even knows who they are, or cares; the bastard is just standing there saying he is waiting for Freddie's lab results but assures that he's put a rush on them, like that's supposed to _mean_ something.

"He said he couldn't SEE, he's going fucking _blind_ and you're standing here--!"

He moves as if to hit the doctor, but John, from beside him, whispers "Roger...," his ordinarily pale complexion white as a sheet and ever-open face telegraphing pure agony with the expression of his eyes and the lines on his cheeks. The bassist whimpers, chokes. He reaches out involuntarily and clutches at Roger's sleeve. He is trembling. "Don't say that Freddie could lose his sight; don't even mention it, please..." _Oh dear lord spare him from these afflictions of the flesh._ John's lips are now moving soundlessly and the drummer halts and tilts his head, staring at John with empathy and love overcoming his fury. Roger smacks his lips, losing all of his vitriol in a rush, and pulls John against him in a stabilizing hug. The poor kid. How desperately he adores Freddie. Roger can relate.

John's curly head drops onto Roger's shoulder and Rog looks away even as he presses himself close to the other man; staring down the doctor as he hurries away to check whether or not the lab results have come in. Roger and Deacy stay as they are; locked in an embrace until quiet footsteps come up beside them. Brian.

"Well Fred was right, you certainly are bouncing off the walls," Bri tries his best to smile but cannot quite manage it. Roger huffs and lifts his lips in an answering smile of his own. It does not quite reach his eyes.

John pulls his face out of Roger's blowsy white shirt and turns his tearful gaze on Brian. "H-how is Freddie?" he croaks. 

Brian automatically reaches out and brushes tears from the youngest man's face. "The nurse is giving him a... blister bath, I think is what she called it. He told me that I ought to come and check on you two. So." Brian's hands are a-tremble and he clenches them together, trying to lessen the shakes. His voice remains steady though quiet as he asks the others "What are we gonna do?"

"I--don't know," Roger admits, his high voice breaking huskily. "The doc says he's put a rush on Fred's results."

"We have to wait for the lab, that's the only way we'll know anything for certain," puts in John. Always voicing the facts pragmatically, even in his tearful fervor during this particular panic-inducing situation.

The three men lock eyes with each other and then pan their gazes around the main section of the clinic where they stand. In unspoken agreement, they move to the wall outside of Freddie's room to sit down, Brian bending his legs for Roger to lean against them and opening his opposite arm for John. The bassist sits and snuggles close to him without a sound. Roger groans and flops backward dramatically to settle his head on Brian's legs and his torso in the guitarist's lap.

Another nurse comes over and offers to bring some chairs, but Brian quietly, politely declines. This will be fine; Roger's breaths are already coming deep and even. He obviously has not slept but his expression is slowly relaxing as he lies across Brian. John's face is tipped down and he seems to be staring at nothing as Bri glances over to check on him.

Rubbing his hand up and down John's arm, the tallest band member speaks softly. "Deacy, you okay?" He receives nothing but an incredulous look, one eyebrow lifting and both eyes crinkling, squinting at him. Brian lets out a breathy laugh. "Alright, fair enough." He shakes his head, roughing up his curls and sighing. "...I just keep thinking..." he stops and swallows, resting his right elbow on his kneecap, careful not to disturb Roger as he rubs and taps the tips of his fingers over his lips. "...about _Hot Space_. Letting Freddie go out to all those clubs--" he stops, sucking in shallow breaths to mitigate the ache flowering in his chest as he agonises. He cannot help it. The drinking and drugging and carousing; Fred with one person in particular more often than not, all of it had exploded between and around the four of them, and not one had been able to stop it. They hadn't even really tried, Brian doesn't think. "Burning the candle at both ends--" Brian closes his eyes. "I dunno, maybe if I'd been able to stop him, to help him then, he might not have gotten so sick."

John tips his head forward, lip jutting out. He is silent for a long moment. Several, actually. One of the many wonderful yet frustrating things about Deacy is he really listens to you, but it takes him so blasted long to answer. "...You couldn't've stopped him, Brian," he finally says. "None of us could. He was doing what he does on that tour, being Freddie." Blinking rapidly, he swallows. It became more than the usual, though; he admits that to himself. And it was so for him too; the drinking and the disco and the drum machines...yet he had apologised, and they all have moved past. He hopes. Still he worries, however; he has for some time. It does not help that he begins thinking about Freddie's words to him last night in the bath, about the unexpected and unknown consequences of one's actions; and of Freddie getting that _feeling,_ whatever it was.... "But I do know what you mean," John admits to Brian, filling the empty silent space with his words. They rise like bubbles within him as he utters truths that he has felt for a while but didn't previously show. "I actually started worrying when--when Freddie wrote 'Don't Stop Me Now'. Feeling like an atom bomb, burning up, it...it honestly seemed like a cry for help." He lets out a heavy breath. "But I've not figured out how to ask him about it, not yet." The bassist shrugs his shoulders lightly. "And you know how he is; he'd probably say something like 'oh, stop being such a mother hen, darling' because it's just a song anyway." His eyes rise to Brian's, dim now with worries filling them, catching at Brian's own concerns and drawing them in like prey caught and suspended in a spider's web. "Isn't it?"

"I don't know," Brian May confesses, pressing his lips together as a chasm opens in his heart. How he wishes that he could find the words to comfort John, and therefore himself, but honestly how far removed from oneself can a song truly be? All of his own songs, whether or not they were written for others or with certain situations and people in mind, every single one of them has an aspect of himself within, like the pearl at the centre of an oyster. He cannot imagine that it would be different for any of the others. And Freddie is their pearl, the centre of Queen; they have got to make sure that nothing happens to him. Cannot allow him to be ravaged by the ravenous unrelenting sea of the world around him.

***

All three of the men have dozed off for a bit; Roger is the first awake as he hears the scraping screech of shoes scuffing across linoleum. He grunts and moves his head from where it has been resting in the curve of Brian's side just above his right hip bone. Bri seems so bony. He gets into emotional spots when he does not eat, and Roger really wants to say something about that, to talk to him, but his head is comfortable at the moment and he is feeling slightly less exhausted. He also feels a little warm. Brian's fingers have threaded themselves into the hair hanging beside his face, holding onto the tresses as if onto a lifeline. 

There is a slight cough and quiet words. That pretty nurse is talking to the doctor a short distance away: "...the bath helped, and I can administer Famvir when he wakes...sign for it...." The doctor murmurs something Roger does not catch, and the nurse asks "What about them?" 

Carefully Roger extricates his hair from Brian's grasp and presses his lips to his friend's knuckles before lowering Bri's hand and turning to face the doctor and nurse. Keeping his voice low so as not to wake Brian or Deacy, Roger stretches and stands. 

"Couldn't help overhearing," he says, leaning in after striding up to them, "But it seems like you've heard something from the lab. And that something has to do with Freddie AND with us." The drummer cocks his head and folds his arms over his chest. He lifts his brows in a damn good impression of John, if Roger says so himself. 

The nurse turns around with a smile that is both startled and a trifle discomfited; clearly she had not expected or thought of being overheard. The doctor still looks disapproving, and he's got that starched look and stodgy manner that makes Roger think of Brian's father, and a little jolt of anger hits him in the heart. Despite the difference in circumstance, he knows how Brian is feeling, the way he feels always whenever something bad happens; that it is his fault. Currently Bri thinks he has failed Freddie by not looking after him well enough. Just as he feels he failed his father by choosing the rock star path rather than the respectable one. So if this guy says anything about Freddie's sickness being prevented within earshot of Brian... well, Roger wishes he had his drumsticks, but he is sure that he can find an implement in here to stuff someplace painful. Medical tools abound aplenty in emergency clinics, after all. 

"You're going to want to wake your friends," the doctor says. Fisher was his name, that's right. "You all should hear this." 

Roger nods with an elaborate bow and his brightest, fakest smile. "Indeed, good sir." He speaks with a drollity worthy of Freddie and kneels back down in front of Brian.

"Brian," he murmurs. "John, hey. Wake up, lads." Putting a warm hand on Deacy's wrist, Roger shakes it and John opens his eyes and raises his head, blinking placidly. 

Brian is not nearly so passive. When Roger puts a hand on his knee, the guitarist wakes with a shout and shoves him away, eyes wide and haunted. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he heaves out breaths. "Hey, whoa, mate, it's me." Roger holds out his hands in a placating way. "...the doctor wants to talk to us about Fred." 

Brian sniffs and rubs his face with a hand before nodding. He must have been having a hell of a dream or something to react that way, but he is solid now. "Right, right. I'm sorry, Rogie." Standing up and offering a hand to John, Brian rubs his other hand over his curls, cheeks flushing a pale pink in embarrassment. "I don't know what came over me."

Roger shrugs and waves the apology away. He knows what it is; they are all on edge. "'S all right, mate. Nothing I can't handle from a date, much less from you." John ducks his head with a small smile as Brian huffs in half-exasperation, half amusement. Roger winks as they turn to face the doctor. 

"Well. Now that we're all here and _composed_ ," the doctor stares pointedly at Roger who nudges Deacy a mite playfully before growing serious again. "...You were right to think your friend has shingles; he does. The blisters spreading over his face close to his eye caused the blindness, but due to the blister bath we've administered, it's temporary and he should have clear vision again in no time." All three men let out exclamations of relief. John bobs his head, eyes closing for a very long moment. Brian crushes Roger to his side in a relieved hug, and Roger crows, overjoyed. "BUT," the doctor added, raising his voice severely, "You should have brought him in far sooner. He needs antiviral medication to be administered within seventy-two hours of contracting the initial shingles rash for the medicine to be effective. When did you say he first got it?"

Roger and John look at each other, all mirth and relief gone. Brian holds his breath as they count back the hours. 

"Er, it was a bit before noon, I think."

"Three days ago?" Roger nodded.

"Yes, this is the--the fourth day," John affirmed. "I mean, well--he got nauseated at night, and had the rash the following morning. So it's the fifth day he's been sick, rather."

"But he had the rash before noon on day two."

"Right, before noon. Is that enough, too much time?" Roger is panicking now. 

The doctor deliberately clicks a pen that he takes out of his jacket pocket, scribbling a note onto a pad that the nurse, Sheila, handed him. Eyes rising over his glasses, the man says "Let me just say that you are incredibly lucky to have brought him in so early today. We're just under seventy-two hours if your timeline is correct. Whose idea was it to come?"

The three bandmates look at each other and Brian raises his hand a little with a polite inclination of his head. "It was mine, sir."

"Good thinking on your part," the doctor sniffed. Roger's eyes narrow and John studies the floor. "We will get him a Famvir dose right now--that is the anti-viral medication that will dry up his blisters and help with the pain--and he will need cold compresses to soothe his skin before his blisters can be covered. You'll need to change the bandages every day and clean the blisters. Do not use warm cloths."

Shit. John gulps. "What about--if they were warm, would they hurt him?"

"High temperature will greatly irritate the skin and can burn it severely as the blisters rise to that temperature and their liquid can cause permanent damage and scarring." John's chin is jutting out and he blinks rapidly, a stricken expression on his face. He should never have given Freddie that hot bath last night. 

Roger sucks in a breath, his blue eyes large and glassy. "It will be okay as long as you cover the skin and only use cold compresses from now on," Nurse Sheila speaks kindly. "Isn't that right, Dr. Fisher?" 

All three members of the band look from her to him, their heads turning as if on a swivel. The doctor clears his throat, seeing how much his words had affected them and softening an iota. "Yes, quite. Your friend will need to rest and eat well, along with taking this medicine to shorten the span of the disease. Now. Have any of you had chicken pox?"

"Yes."

"Yeah."

"We all have," Brian swings his right index finger around to indicate them all and then raps his mouth with it. "Which is good, isn't it? It means we're immune."

"...No, it actually means that you are more susceptible, given that chicken pox and shingles are the same virus, and that virus has gotten into your system before." Roger's eyes are bulging now and John drops his face into his hands. "We have some vaccines on hand, and you can schedule your second dose two to six months out. Sheila, will you get three initial doses of Zostavax once you put in the antiviral order?" The nurse nods. "Thank you."

With that the doctor advises the men to wait to be vaccinated whilst he goes to check in on Freddie. The pretty nurse leaves to put in the vaccination order and get Fred's medicine, smiling warmly at the three as she passes them. Roger, ever the flirt, does not even follow her with his eyes; in fact he hardly takes note of her at all, but turns to John and Brian instead; the latter of whom has gone abruptly pale once more. "...Can we get this second vaccine dose done before our next tour, then?" The drummer's thoughts are swimming. If they don't, and one of them gets sick....

"We'll have to," John speaks bluntly. _If we even have a next tour._ He is not one normally given to pessimism, but the circumstances of this illness and what he could have done to Freddie because of not knowing proper treatment, the damage he could have caused-- "I do know that if we skip out on the second dose, the vaccine won't work correctly," he says. "Despite the fact that I was an idiot about how contagious this is and how it's passed in the first place, and what to do for the blisters..."

He stops and Roger puts a hand on his arm. "Not any more of an idiot than I am for not getting Freddie to the doctor the first moment I saw his rash." Looking to Brian, who has not said a word in several minutes, Roger asks "Well what d'ya think, Bri? Aren't you going to tell us how badly we almost cocked this up? Brian?"

Roger studies the guitarist closer, growing concerned. Brian has started shaking, drawing in heaving short breaths that do not seem to be giving him enough oxygen. "...Bri, what's going on? Whoa," Brian staggers and Roger lunges for him, grabbing onto his waist as his knees buckle. 

"We need a glass of water over here!" John cries, voice cracking. He cannot take much more of this, cannot bear any more hurt happening; his nerves are nearly shot. "Please!"

"Whoa, Brian, hang on." Roger crouches down and touches Brian's cheek. His skin is cold and clammy, and his eyes are wide, pupils dilated in panic. "Hey, look at me. It's Roger, Bri. I'm here, and you're going to be okay. Freddie's okay. We're all going to be okay." John is at Roger's shoulder now, holding out a glass of water that he had been given. Brian makes no move to take it. "Brian, come on," Roger's voice wobbles. He is desperate. "Please, don't do this, mate--if you keep flipping out then I'm gonna start REALLY going mad." He tries to turn his words into a joke, but can't quite make his voice light enough. He holds Brian by the shoulders and gnaws at his lower lip worriedly.

Finally it is as if the tall man comes unglued. He slumps downward, arse hitting the floor sharply before Roger can get the chance to ease him down. Brian's trembling hands cover his face. "... It's not about that, it's me," he mumbles wretchedly. "Oh, I'm so bloody stupid. I'm sorry."

"What? Why?" Roger and John exchange a dumbfounded glance. John raises his eyebrows and leans a little closer.

"I have a...a thing with needles," Brian rumbles. Roger had taken the water glass from John, eliciting an exasperated glower, and takes a gulp. He instantly starts choking and coughing violently. John pats him hard on the back.

"Huhhh--I'm sorry, what ...was that?" Roger coughs out.

"I don't like needles!" Brian nearly shouts. He throws his hands forward and Roger lets him go and retreats to avoid being hit. "...ever since I got hepatitis, they wig me out, all right?" Brian lowers his voice. His heartbeat is thundering in his ears and crinkling his eardrums with the sound. It's beating too fast, far too fast... His mouth feels like it has been packed with cotton wool and his palms are clammy. "'Specially in places like this, where we don't know what's been touched... if it's sterilised..." He vividly remembers the pain of hepatitis like something dull sawing relentlessly through his guts. He gasps a little, breaths coming short and sharp. "I know--this vaccination, I know that we've, I've got to get it, but I'm not..." Brian swallows hard, blinking and lifting his eyes. His face is tipped down and he looks up from beneath his curly dark fringe. Pinching his lips together he adds, voice shaking "I... I don't know wh...if I can go through with this. Honestly feel like I might be sick."

"Oh, Brian," John crouches down beside him, hazel eyes full of compassion. "I'm sorry, we--" he glances over at Roger, whose own face has gone red with shame. They should have put together the fear, as it's completely understandable and honestly not surprising at all now that Bri has voiced it.

"I'm sorry, mate," Roger speaks gruffly, large eyes fastened on his friend's. "We'll be right here with you, though--or if you want to go and get the vaccine at a hospital instead, later, just give the word."

Brian nods, feeling his heartbeat slowing and the rapidity of his breaths decreases. "Thank you," he says to both, reaching out and holding their forearms briefly as he continues in a rush: "and I'm sorry, so sorry, I shouldn't be bringing my feelings into this, it's unnecessary--we have to get vaccinated to better help Fred, and stay healthy, and--"

Roger rolls his eyes. "--Yeah, yeah. And because of a thousand more scientific variables and reasons that your mind is already cooking up. We _get_ it, Bri."

"Better head him off now," John chuckles and stands. He and Roger each offer Brian a hand to help him up.

Brian takes their hands and stands, settling his shoulders. The last of his panic subsides. He can do this; he can handle anything so long as his boys are by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"I actually started worrying when--when Freddie wrote 'Don't Stop Me Now'." = Brian May reportedly thought this particular song written by Freddie was an autobiographical and alarming hymn to hedonism, according to a quote from LIFE Magazine: _"I thought it was a lot of fun, but, yes, I did have an undercurrent feeling of 'are we talking about danger here?' Because we were worried about Freddie at this point, and I think that feeling lingers."_ (LIFE : QUEEN p. 58)
> 
> I thought it would be interesting if Deacy was the person to bring Bri's worries up aloud because he is the typically silent member of the band, as well as the one closest to Freddie in some ways. I wanted to flesh out his dynamics with Brian some more as well, because they're so much fun to write and have such an understated but very real and caring relationship
> 
> *starched look and stodgy manner that makes Roger think of Brian's father = this is an allusion to the fact that Brian's dad, Harold, was not happy that his son became a rock star rather than staying in school to be an astrophysicist. I like to think that Brian talked to Roger about his dad sometimes, and of course Rogie has his buddy's back
> 
> *Famvir is the name of an antiviral medication used for shingles, and it is true that this medication (or any medicine for shingles) MUST be administered within 72 hours of a person getting their rash for it to work
> 
> *"will you get three initial doses of Zostavax ...?" = Zostavax and Shingrix are the two most common vaccines to prevent the shingles virus. There are two doses that must be administered, and the second dose has to occur within six months of the first one. Zostavax is an older, and unfortunately less-reliable, vaccine than Shingrix is, but that is likely the one that would have been administered during the early 80s
> 
> *"ever since I got hepatitis" = On 11 May, 1974, Brian collapsed backstage after a show. Queen had been performing in New York City along with another band, and needed vaccinations before arriving on that tour, which started in America in early April. Brian contracted hepatitis (from one of the vaccines, it's believed) and was ill for a good while afterwards. 
> 
> Poor man; if I were him I would probably have a fear of needles and vaccinations, so that's where my idea came from


	12. Days Six to Ten. The Slate Will Soon Be Clean.

The next few days are a blur for Freddie, in the sense that he is given medicine and cool baths and is wrapped in bandages to cover his slowly shrinking blisters. But he is stagnant, stuck in the house, and all he wants is to regain his strength and return to life and to music.

The others exhort him to eat, and to sleep, and he does--or at least he tries. The white lesion on his tongue grows even as his blisters shrink, until it explodes one day with an evil-smelling gush of liquid that coats his throat and makes him physically ill. Roger stays with him again, bathing his face in cool water as he heaves. 

John cooks him wonderful meals and Brian keeps a little bit of a distance (because, according to the others, he nearly passed out when being administered the shingles vaccine at the clinic and does not want to take a chance or limit its effectiveness in any way.) He is already anxious about the necessary second dose.

Freddie's vision is back completely, which is a good thing. The best thing. There are no words to describe the utter terror he had felt engulfing him like a riptide current when his vision grew fuzzy and the world almost became colourless... But he has recovered from that and he will be fine. He has to be.

Freddie tries desperately not to dwell on the fact that his breaths come in short gasps as he sings and tries to sing. Surely his lung capacity will return in time; perhaps that tongue lesion has stymied his abilities briefly but he will bounce back. He must. He is Freddie fucking Mercury, darling; and giving up is not an option.

On the eighth day the blisters are noticably shrunken, and are scabbing over in earnest by the tenth. "Things are looking up, loves!" Freddie exults. They ought to be ready to tour again in no time.

And then of course arrives the month of their scheduled SNL performance.

***

The boys have been spending time trying to decide whether or not they can go to New York for SNL and if so, what songs they are going to sing. "We're certainly under pressure to make this a good show, lads," Brian says in a heavy tone of voice. "...from what I heard from the press, our tour was... underwhelming."

Roger groans. "Well _that's_ bloody fantastic, Brian."

John nods and lifts his eyebrows with a tight-lipped smile. "Think we should sing 'Under Pressure' then? It fits." The others stare at him and Freddie starts laughing.

"Ah, Deacy. But of course, that's a wonderful idea," the singer enthuses. 

Roger shrugs. "Won't be the same without Bowie, but..."

"--But you can certainly sing with Freddie, Rog," Brian finishes. "It'll be fine." The drummer gives him a gentle punch on the arm in thanks for his belief. Scratching his head, the guitarist stands up. "... Someone ought to call Miami first, see if we're still on the show." He heads into the kitchen to use the phone.

"Wait, why wouldn't we be??" Roger leans over and calls after him.

Brian shoots back over one shoulder "Let's just say I don't know how we stand as a band in the eyes of the American press anymore."

John scrunches up his lips and shrugs. "That's a fair enough point."

"Yes it is." Freddie sniffs. "We shall just blow them away with this performance, then! What other song ought we to do? Please don't even bother to suggest 'I'm in Love With My Car', Roger. I adore you, but no." 

The drummer pouts. "What do YOU suggest we perform, then?" He ducks his head sulking. John softly pats his shoulder in sympathy and smiles. The three put their heads together as they hear Brian in the kitchen.

"Miami, it's Brian. Yes, cheers to you too, thanks for the assistance in getting back. Yeah, Fred's doing great. Got a dose of antiviral medication and he's practically back to his old self." Brian smiles weakly and shifts himself to lean against the kitchen counter. "So, er, how are we on going to Saturday Night Live?" He stops and listens, tapping his fingers. "...Do they still want us? Yeah?" Head bowing low in thankful vindication, Brian's lips lift into a smile. This is good. Really good. "This is great, Miami. When do we need to get there? By the 24th, okay. Thank you."

After exchanging a few more niceties, Brian and Miami hang up and the lanky man runs back into Freddie's living room. All the heads of the others shoot up to stare at him. "Well, Brian?" Freddie tilts his head expansively. Roger's eyes are bright and John has a half-smile on his lips. Brian takes his dear sweet time articulating the news.

"C'mon, you git!" Roger eventually explodes. "What did Miami say? Tell us."

Brian's eyes twinkle and then he beams. "We're on for two sets on the episode of SNL that airs September twenty-fifth." 

"Aha, yes!"

"Thank God."

"Knew it!"

The band come together for a group hug, gripping onto one another tightly.

"Now, about the other song...."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"Please don't even bother to suggest 'I'm In Love With My Car', Roger." = Freddie did not want to put that song on the _A Night at the Opera_ B-side and therefore after Roger locked himself into a cupboard and got it on the record, I imagine Freddie made exasperated jokes about it for, well, ever afterwards
> 
> I'm doing some research on the episode of _Saturday Night Live_ in which Queen appeared in September of '82. Please let me know if you have any scenes/scenarios you'd like to see take place before or after the SNL performance. 
> 
> And as always, thank you so much for reading, darlings <3


	13. The Twenty-fourth, Afternoon to Evening. Still Believe the Lie.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queen is again in America the day before a show
> 
> WARNING for references to physical/emotional abuse below. Bill Reid is an arsehole

Queen comes back onto American soil via LaGuardia Airport and the boys head to a small studio in the heart of New York City to rehearse for the taping of _Saturday Night Live_ on the following afternoon.

They are able to rent out a small theatre space in Soho, about twenty or so minutes from the SNL studio by car "courtesy of Miami being the guv'nor" said Roger and the other three nodded in and voiced their agreement. Unfortunately he could not dispel certain hangers-on with an uncanny ability to discover where the band is playing. 

Well, where _Freddie_ is, if one wants to get specific about it.

They're going over 'Under Pressure' to work out the harmonies with the duet, and have decided their other performance will be of Freddie's brainchild from the bath, 'Crazy Little Thing Called Love'. Everything is going well; Fred's voice is thin but smooth, even with his need for more breaths than usual; and then that asshat Prenter comes in with Reid.

"Freddie! We found you!" Like the pair of them had made some perilous journey just to reach him, when all one had to do was look at the setlist for Saturday Night Live and then find a nearby studio. Prenter probably weaseled something out of Miami without him noticing, the tricksy bastard. And Reid...

Bill Reid was Freddie's boyfriend, or more like a loud accessory to his life and Prenter's games who had appeared and latched on when they came to America before. At least that is how the others see it. None of them care for him; rowdy, noisy, trying to be the biggest bullcock in the room, but he's got more ego in one finger than all of them have got. That and nothing to show for it, no talent. He is possessive, too; violently so--the dark-haired man comes right into the rehearsal and puts an arm around Freddie, pulling him close rather roughly. "You've been silent, left me for so long I was beginning to worry. You know that you ought to be with me, Freddie. I need you." 

Freddie smiles and puts a hand on the other's chest. "I know, I _am_ sorry, darling. I'll make it up to you."

Hand clutching tighter, the taller man adds "You certainly need to." 

John ducks his face, Brian's lips settle flat together, and Roger twirls his drumsticks, rising from behind the set as he spits, tilting his head sharply: "Yeah, well, WE needed to make sure he was healthy after catching something doing God-knows-what with you on tour every night over here, _Bill_." Bill has cupped his hand around the back of Freddie's neck as though he is a child. Or a dog. _Take your hands off him, you bastard._

Reid withdraws his hand leisurely from where he had placed it on Freddie's neck and stalks towards the blond, pale eyes seeming to grow even paler. "I don't seem to recall you making a fuss or saying anything against it during your big BIRTHDAY." Bill's mouth curls viciously. "...Seems you're to blame as much as me. Or more, rather, since you're in his band. You really ought to watch out for him better."

Roger's nostrils flare. He wipes his lips, nods, and looks away before transferring his drumsticks into his left hand and swinging his right fist to strike Bill squarely on the nose.

Bill falls back into Prenter as blood blooms and begins dripping from his nose. He snarls for Freddie to get away as the other offers him a gentle hand up. "Oh fuck off, you sniveling queen. I'm second fiddle, right?" 

Freddie looks stricken, eyes now huge. "Of course not, Bill, dear. Oh, Roger--" he tries to placate them both but begins violently coughing. His eyes water as Bill turns away with his own gaze baleful, shivering in obvious disgust. Roger's jaw clenches and he lunges at the man. He would have murdered him, too, if Brian was not there at this point to reach around and grab the drummer by both shoulders, looming over him and forcibly halting his headlong rush.

John fills a glass with water and brings it to Freddie, rubbing soothing circles on his friend's back as he shudders with the coughs. "I'll see you later, maybe," Bill tosses backwards as his voice grows nasally with congealing blood. Prenter stands, hovers in uncertainty as the other tilts his head back and blood runs down his face. "...You know where we'll be." He shares a significant look with Freddie and with Prenter.

"Alright, you've come and said your piece, now fuck off!" Already heading for the door, Brian herds the two men out of it, Roger biting his lower lip and stalking to the door beside him. They manage to slam the makeshift music studio's door shut and Brian presses one palm against its wood and faces it squarely to steady himself and to hide his face. Therefore he'll be able to hide his thoughts as well, he hopes. At least for the moment. 

Brian has learned to keep his mouth shut. Well, sometimes. _Hot Space_ and its subsequent press tour had taught him to pick his battles if nothing else. Otherwise he would spend all his energy rowing about cheap thrills with wastrel people, or about making reckless choices. After being alone for so long Brian cannot bear to alienate one of the people for whom he cares about the most. He cannot afford it.

So he says nothing.

Roger clearly has not learned what Brian has, because he lights a cigarette, takes a deep drag and whirls on Freddie. His blond hair flies behind with the vehemence of his body movement. "Christ, Fred, why the hell d'you let him treat you like that?"

Freddie has sat down whilst sipping some water as his coughs subside. He appears small in this moment, and tired. John remains beside him with his hand remaining upon Freddie's back, gently providing support. Fred's voice is a little rough as he attempts to rationalise "Bill's not a bad person, really; he just gets lonely." Brian has turned away from the door and walked back over to hear. Now he squeezes his eyes shut. Roger is certainly going to have a field day with that statement...

" _LONELY?!_ " The drummer scoffs, huffing out some more smoke and leaning towards Freddie with eyes wide. He jabs his right arm back at the now once-more closed door. "That man is a bloody twat. I can't believe you don't see it." Roger shakes and tips his head back with incredulity. "You're so good and generous, Fred--you could get with anyone you like, and you chose HIM. Bill and Prenter are two of a kind, mate! They're slick and twisted and they'll work their way in--"

"Do grow up, darling." Freddie's nostrils flare as he draws himself upright, slugging down the last of his water and shoving the glass aside. John mercifully catches it as the singer stalks close to Roger incensed. "You dare judge me for my choices? You, with a new girl on your arm every night--since the first night that we met?" Roger's throat bobs and Brian covers his mouth with a hand as Freddie adds "I never said anything about _them_ because I respect and accept YOU."

"But they don't treat me like shit, Freddie!" Roger's high voice is now cracking with desperation and rage. He clenches his fists, expression pained. Why won't --why _can't_ \-- Freddie understand? "They don't HURT me!"

Silence. Brian's eyes are closed, John's are enormous, and a slump has pronounced itself through Freddie's shoulders. His fury so bright and hot at first like Roger's, has grown small and cold almost in an instant. It remains sharp inside his chest and gut, pricking and gouging his innards. He cannot speak, and then the spell breaks with a crash as the now-empty water glass drops out of John's nerveless fingers. 

Freddie flinches and Roger's chest heaves as his own anger drains away, leaves him feeling rather dizzy and lost. There is something sharp and haunted in Freddie's dark eyes. Beneath his mustache, his full lips tremble. Or perhaps Roger is only imagining that, because when his friend again speaks, the words are hard and bear an arctic chill: "...No, they don't. You're right." Roger's eyes clear and his expression starts to soften, but then Freddie hisses "You hurt THEM." And then, throwing out his arms, voice rising wildly, "Why should I not be with Bill, Roger? Somebody like you wouldn't have me."

And then he is gone too; disappearing out of the studio door. Potentially following Bill. "Fred--" Brian starts out after him but reaches street level too late; a cab pulls away from the theatre where they are and heads north towards Hudson Street.

***

Brian stands outside the studio in a slight mist that has begun to fall. He recalls the last time he'd stalked out of a building in New York City and wishes Miami was here today to give him some advice. But their manager has gone to put in their names and information at the hotel in which they'll be staying, and likely will be signing any last-minute SNL paperwork until late in the evening. 

So Brian stands alone in the chilly air and feels droplets of water slowly sink into and saturate his hair. He turns to head back inside with a shiver as he thinks of Freddie riding off to some club, and as water drips onto his neck the guitarist settles his shoulders and decides this is it. He won't allow a repeat of their last tour to happen--he is going back to be with the boys and then to find Freddie.

Returning to the studio room, Brian sighs as he notes Roger standing in place, breathing hard as John uses a broom and crouches down to sweep up the shattered remains of Freddie's water glass. "Well done, Rogie. You've pissed Fred off enough that he's probably gonna end up in some club for the night."

Deacy looks up in horror. "No..."

"Yeah, well." Brian throws out his arms and extends his legs to sit down against the wall next to the door. "Maybe not. There is always hope that he'll come back here or to the hotel. Eh, Roger?" Brian's eyes travel beneath his fringe to focus on Roger's back.

Roger has frozen, arrested by Freddie's final words to him before leaving. "Did--did Freddie just come on to me?" The blond turns, sputtering and jerking one thumb from the door towards himself, eyes slightly narrowing as he begins to believe. "...Is that what happened, Brian?"

John pushes out his lower lip. "I rather think he was pointing out the reality of his situation, Roger."

Rog takes another pull on his cig and glares at John, tapping the ashes off the end. "Which is _what_ , exactly? Do enlighten me, Deacy." His voice is mulish and his eyes flash dangerously, but John does not rise to the bait.

In a calm, even tone of voice the bassist answers "Well I'm afraid you'll have to ask Fred the specifics, but he says he needs somebody for the... in-between moments. Someone who will stay." Tapping his thumb against the shaft of the broom and tipping his head forward, John speaks deliberately. "Even with all of your admirable qualities, Roger, based solely on your romantic track record, d'you honestly think you could be that person?" John widens his eyes significantly as the other man opens his mouth to retort. "Can you always be there?"

Roger folds his arms across his chest and lifts his chin up stoutly, blue gaze direct and intent. "I'd do it for Freddie." His eyes flicker over to look at Brian and then he looks back at John as he adds, a little desperate, "We already ARE here for him, all of us! ...Aren't we?"

Brian lowers his face in shame and John blinks rapidly.

"I certainly thought I was--we were," Bri begins, tapping his fingers against his face. "But that was before all-- _THIS._ " He waves his other hand madly in the air to indicate, well, everything. He wishes they hadn't come back, said screw you to SNL and to America, and kept Freddie safe at home. 

Roger studies him and Brian knows the drummer is aware precisely what he is thinking. "I know, Bri," he mumbles, coming over and sitting beside him with a heavy sigh. He slings an arm across Brian's shoulders and the scent of smoke wafts off his body and his clothes, but for once the guitarist doesn't mind. The smoke and the weight of his arm and even his body heat is quinessentially _Roger_ , and that is comforting for Brian right about now. "...But now we're doing this, just letting Fred go and sitting here chatting about it." Roger fiercely rubs his opposite hand across the lower half of his face, eyes flashing with frustration. _It's Hot Space all over again, damn it._

"We need to tell him," John speaks up suddenly, coming toward the others from where he had been crouching on the floor gathering glass. Brian and Roger nearly jump. Their shy Deacy's voice is strident, and he has tears standing in his eyes. His lips are trembling. "We've got to tell Freddie that we're still here; that we'll ALWAYS be here for him, and that we love him. No matter what." A pregnant pause ensues where Roger clears his throat and Brian looks down and then back up with a nod. "I think he needs to hear that," John now croaks out, volume failing him as he blinks hard. His face is hard and desperate and beseeching; strong and nearly broken all at once. The bassist speaks in a wobbly whisper now: "He doesn't hear it nearly enough."

Roger feels his own eyes begin to fill. Brian does not trust himself to speak, but he nods and reaches out to take hold of John's shoulder. Roger pats him on the other arm. John sighs in relief that he got those words out, and a little tension drains from his body. "Well. I would say this has been an incredibly productive day," he continues eventually in his quinessentially dry manner. Hauling himself to his feet, he tosses the shards of glass he had gathered into the nearest garbage bin and glances back at the others. "But we're done for now, yeah?"

"...Right," Brian nods with a slight grin at Deacy's words as he slides back up the wall. Roger rises too, hand remaining on his shoulder. There is no point in continuing the rehearsal without Freddie, especially since the next piece they would be doing is his song.

"Okay." Roger finishes his smoke and flips the unlit butt into the trash as well. He runs a hand through his hair, spiking it up and then flattening it down. "...Drinks, then?"

John nods and Brian shrugs. "May as well; we ought to get some food in us too before going to find Freddie." The guitarist rubs his hands down his slacks and goes to lock up his Red Special, putting her into her case tenderly, fingers curled round her heft. He relaxes a bit at the familiar weight, but Roger glances at him with eyebrows raised, and Bri's temper flares. "If it gets late I'm going to find him and bring him back to the hotel, Rog! I can't NOT do it, not after before; he could still be sick, and not..." His voice trails off into nothingness, but Roger still understands. He pats Brian on the shoulder, eyes catching and holding his in a silent apology. 

"Alright, Brian." John smiles ever-so-slightly as he packs up his own equipment. "Let's get on, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In reality, three-quarters of the band did not go back to London when Freddie was sick; they were still on tour and stayed until their final performance in America on the 25th of September
> 
> I hope readers will forgive a little artistic license, however, because now that they are back here comes DRAMAAAA!!
> 
> *Prenter = I refuse to dignify this waste of space with his first name, as he sinuously inserted himself into Freddie's life and manipulated the dear kind generous man
> 
> *"You hurt THEM" = Freddie and Bill Reid's relationship got physical in a horrible and abusive way and that is the hurt Roger talks about. Freddie's retort deals with the emotional hurt that certainly accompanied at least some of Roger's many conquests. He certainly got around


	14. The Twenty-fourth and Twenty-fifth, Night and Day. No Real Intent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After food and drinking, Brian goes to find Freddie.
> 
> Some brief description of BDSM follows, as well as references to possible drug use in clubs. This comes from research AS WELL AS inference, so I hope that my descriptions are not diminutive or otherwise offensive to anyone.
> 
> WARNING ALSO for referenced attempted physical/psychological abuse

The three band members find a small restaurant and bar across the avenue from their hotel after calling for their driver to put their instruments in the room. They are not too far from the SNL studio. Miami is a master. 

Brian orders a trio of lagers, pints--or whatever passes for a pint in America--the moment they walk through the door. They'll have to let the beer stand for a while once it comes; Americans drink their beer far too cold. 

Roger disappears briefly, leaving Brian to locate a booth with Deacy. John glances sideways at Brian with a rueful grin. Both expect Roger to return either with a girl (or a pair of girls) on one arm, or not to come back at all. 

Thus both are legitimately surprised to see his fluffy dark-blond head maneuver past the bar and through the restaurant to the back-corner booth they had found some minutes later. He carries a large plate. "Got us some appetisers," he announces with a flourish. "Even managed to find some sort of vegetable plate on account of you, Brian. You're welcome." He puts the plate down and slides in next to Deacon. Brian stares and lets out a snort as John smirks and shrugs at him. "What?" Roger asks.

"Oh, nothing, nothing at all." Brian picks up a stick of celery as John reaches for a slice of pita bread. "We just expected you to be indulging in...an appetite, well, appetiser of another nature." 

Roger stares in stupefaction and mock-hurt as John lets out a guffaw and Brian spits a sliver of celery across the table in mirth. "Oh ha ha ha, very funny. Laugh it up, gits." But his eyes are twinkling as he leans in dramatically. "The night is still young, though...," Rog grabs a second stick of celery out of Brian's hand and crunches it between his teeth, suggestively waggling his eyebrows. 

John has one arm resting atop the table and now drops his face into his hand. Brian looks down and shakes his head, covering his mouth as a smile stretches it. Roger smirks in self-satisfaction at their reactions. Ah, he enjoys this.

A server comes to the table and they each order a meal, John getting another beer as well. Brian gets tomato bisque soup, Roger a chicken and pasta dish, and John a beef-and-chips plate. Well, fries, as they are called here. Roger steals a few the second the plate arrives, and John offers some to Brian as he finishes his soup rather quickly and grows a bit peckish. 

"So," Roger wipes his hands on a napkin and John drinks down most of his second beer. "What's our plan to find Fred? Where would he go?"

"Well," Brian twirls a fry in the air as he holds it between his thumb and forefinger. His curls bounce as he swallows and tucks his chin, eyes rising. "...I have a feeling he'd go to his usual haunt, his favourite club."

Roger nods, snapping his fingers as he tries to recall the club name. "Right, right. The, uh... Minecart or something."

"The Mineshaft," John offers quietly, head low as he focuses on his food. He feels the others' eyes on him as he finishes the last of his lager. Flicking his gaze from Roger to Brian, the bassist adds "Fred told me about it once. It's in the meat-packing district, he said."

***

The Mineshaft. In the meatpacking district of New York City, a host of plants and various other buildings buck up against clubs and other haunts. This one in particular contains low red-litten windows in a dark facade, at least in the main section. A sparkly black catwalk with poles bisects the large room on the main level, a bar stretches along one side and a truck is parked in the back alongside a set of spiral stairs that lead downwards to what is referred to as "the Dungeon"; medieval or otherwise, well... loud music and louder voices drift through the air in a cacophony along with flashing neon lights and various types of smoke that hangs in a multicoloured haze above the crowd inside.

Brian already has a headache. He very much regrets telling the others to leave him here alone to locate Freddie whilst they return to the hotel. Roger even offered to come inside with him as Brian's eyes had bulged upon his initial sight of the place. But ever stubborn and committed to his choices, the guitar-loving astrophysicist demurs "I can do it, Rogie. With the stars, they're unknowable and strange, so maybe I can just...look at this place like that." 

Roger had grinned and leaned back into their car, waving to him and saying something to John as their driver pulled away from the curb. Brian pats the car's side just before it leaves and then threads his fingers through his unruly hair. Straightening his shirt cuffs and swallowing hard, the tall man rolls his shoulders and strides into the club. Perhaps he can simply slip among the crowd members unnoticed to locate Freddie, he reasons. His band-mate certainly cannot be THAT difficult to find.

Yeah, right. No such luck. 

Brian feels eyes light upon him almost as soon as he moves into the main room. There is some sort of show going on, with flashing lights and men gyrating and strutting round poles. Brian cannot even make out the song that is playing; he simply hears the thumping of a bass--it's some disco number, almost certainly. He had wondered if perhaps he would hear something from _Hot Space_ , but cannot rightly distinguish anything but shouting and cheers.

Drinks are swaying back and forth with lifted hands, and neon lights are glowing as Bri does his best to sidle past people in various states of inebriation and undress. Several brush against him or lock eyes with his and smile, touching his face, shoulder, hair. Brian does his best to smile or nod back and pass by quickly. "Excuse me, sorry, pardon. -Is there a Mr. Mercury here?" he eventually makes it to the bar and leans over it; well, falls against it, more like--gripping the slightly-sticky wood with fingers splayed and elbows jutting out in order to remain upright.

The bartender, eyes coated in shadow that elongates their edges as kohl did for people in Ancient Egypt and high cheekbones illumined, cocks a perfect brow. "Mercury...?"

"He comes here often. It's his favourite place." Leaning in, Brian tips his head forward and hisses " _Freddie_ Mercury? Belle of the ball, calls everybody 'darling'?"

"Aha!" Winks the bartender. "Mr. Fahrenheit is who you must mean. Excellent choice, my man. I'll take you to him."

"What? No, I-" Brian bumbles his words and stops as the barkeep beckons for somebody else to take his place and leaps lithely across the bar. He puts an arm through Brian's and mutters "Come with me, tiger," into the guitarist's nearer ear.

"I've been told I'm more of a crab, actually," Brian cannot help but murmur back. He is not certain whether or not that was an advisable thing to say. His companion chuckles as more men come their way.

The bartender hoots as Brian, following his lead, shuffles closer. He feels as awkward and out-of-place as an infant giraffe, stumbling through the half-lit haze to locate his friend. "Back off, this is a virgin to the Mineshaft come to see our canary!" Surprisingly, people do move away to make a path for the bartender after he speaks so. Must be a code; either that, or his stern gaze is enough to deter any shenanigans. Brian desperately hopes not to find Freddie doing drugs or something in the dungeon. The atmosphere of this place is doing nothing to lessen or dispel his anxieties or worries about his friend. He just wants to find Fred and get him back to the hotel to rest.

Descending the spiral stairs and sighting stony walls, Brian hears the throbbing of a gong and a guitar beat as the bartender leads him down the stairs to yes, a dungeon. And then he hears the unmistakable sensual tone singing words he had written:

_"Oooh! Yeah, get your party on and your pigtail down and your heart beatin' baby!"_

What? Brian never expected to hear THIS song playing in a gay club, but he lifts his face at the bottom of the stairs to see a clapping mass of people facing a stage--well, what looks rather like a makeshift one--with a table on top and several figures dancing around including a flamboyant familiar figure doing back bends. Then with the assistance of others holding onto his arms, he spins and is tied to the table, above which lights flash. A third person with a long bulbous nose and pale eyes nearly glowing in the light-- _son of a bitch, that's Bill Reid!_ \--leans over the man's head, holding down his shoulders and giving him a showy, domineering kiss upon the lips. 

The supine figure flings itself up gracefully, moving about with dramatic flair, and Brian's stomach does a flip--or more like it attempts to and then plummets into his shoes. There is no mistaking that graceful figure by his movements and now his face as it shines in the light. "Freddie!" Brian shouts and charges at the makeshift stage, using his height and strength to plunge bodily among bodies. "FREDDIE!!"

"Brian?!" The dear head of short black hair whips round as his body rises, eyes scanning the room. He shoves Bill's hands away and the other comes back at him aggressively, but Brian has made it to the stage by this point and is looking up at Freddie. Something in Fred's eyes dims, a spark leaves and he looks weary for the briefest instant. Then his charismatic smile is back. "Come up and join us, darling. I must say that I'm rather surprised to see you here; you've been clear that this isn't your scene." He gestures with bound hands.

"...It's not," Brian admitted, hoisting his weight up on both arms and pulling his gangling limbs together to lift himself and stand upon the stage. "But I came here looking for you to make sure you're okay." Staring hard at Bill and at the others next to Freddie, including Prenter hovering back behind in the shadows, that bastard, Brian adds more quietly, bending his face close to his friend's: "We've got the taping tomorrow. You need-" Bri stops himself short and then rephrases "Do you need a rest for the night, mate? I certainly could use one. Jet lag and all." _Freddie, you're ill. Or at least you were. I'm looking out for you. Please, let me._

His sentiments shine through the lean man's light hazel eyes and Freddie smiles and relaxes. His Brian is here. He is safe.

_"Tie your mother down, tie your mother down, lock your daddy out of doors--don't need him nosin' around!"_

The song continues. With a jerk of his head Freddie beckons to Bill. He murmurs something, a word that Brian doesn't catch, and then speaks up: "...I'm afraid I have to be getting on now, darling. Duty calls." He smiles fondly at Brian. "Got my faithful scientific timepiece with me. What's the time now, Bri?"

Brian obediently checks his watch. "It's two-thirty in the morning, Fred. Roger and John are back at the hotel asleep." _Hopefully._

Freddie nods and sits up all the way, stilling and holding out his arms for the bonds to be removed. His voice is firm and his eyes snap at Bill. "Release me, please."

"Come on, you don't want to do this, Freddie. All of these people are here and want to see you. Surely you don't mean to disappoint them?"

Freddie hesitates and looks to Brian, who gives him a gentle nod and kneels to untie him. The singer feels his heart swell at the sight and touch of this sensitive, sensible sweet man coming to a place so far removed from his comfort zone. And here he is, neither condemning or outwardly batting an eye at Freddie's doings and choices. Brian simply cares about his well-being and desires for him to come home. "Well, if they want to see more of me, tell them to turn on Saturday Night Live tomorrow evening." Fred arches his back as he rises upward, rubbing his wrists and arms as Brian's deft fingers unknot the last of the ropes and pull them away. The guitarist then takes his hand and gently squeezes it as Bill's frustrated wrath explodes.

"Are you seriously, honestly going to leave us here after all we've done for-"

Freddie's grip tightens around Brian's fingers and the stocky well-built body of the singer grows tense even as his tone remains light and calm. "Let's discuss this later, darling. Lead the way, Brian." And then, calling out to the room at large, "Mr. Fahrenheit is leaving tonight, but you'll see me in fine form live on Saturday!" There are cheers and boos intermixed but no one attempts to halt the band-members' egress. 

Brian glances back as he jumps off the stage to spy Bill fuming, face contorted into a scowl as Prenter hangs onto his arm and whispers in his ear before the other yanks his arm away and stalks off the other side of the stage in fury. Brian feels a chill of foreboding shudder across the back of his neck beneath his hair. He cannot articulate why he should feel this way other than the fact that he utterly despises what Reid does to Freddie and how he guilts him into situations. The other shoe is likely going to drop from this.

Relinquishing his hold on Brian's hand, Freddie guides his friend through the crowd with a hand upon his shoulder instead, moving back through the expanse of the stone-walled dungeon. Chains, whips, and other paraphernalia (that Brian would have described solely as methods of medieval torture before tonight) adorn the walls alongside a small alcove that leads "Outside. This is a side door, love." Freddie opens it and ushers Brian through. Before the guitarist exits, however, he feels a hand touch him on the backside and unintentionally stiffens. But Freddie whirls back around, sunglasses on now as he stares down the man who had taken liberties and says smoothly: "Don't handle the merchandise; he isn't interested, and he does not have to be."

Brian has no idea what to say, but the person who had touched him actually apologises for making him uncomfortable. Brian nods back graciously and he and Freddie exit the Mineshaft to stand in an alley between buildings. 

_"Give me all--your--love tonight!"_

As they turn to head to the street, a brisk wind blows between buildings and Brian notices his friend is shivering. Clearing his throat, he utters "Er, here, Fred." The taller man moves to shrug out of his overcoat and drape it across the other's shoulders.

"Oh, no, Brian; I'm not t-taking your coat."

"C'mon, mate. Your teeth are chattering." Freddie stubbornly shakes his head and Brian sighs. "Well then at least let me-" He slings his left arm around Freddie's broad shoulders and pulls him against his side. The shorter man smiles and leans into Brian's torso and neck as they walk down the alley to Hudson Street and hail a cab back to their hotel.

***

Brian goes with Freddie to his door; it had taken only eleven minutes or so to get back to the place Miami purchased for them. Good ol' Jim Beach, always watching out. He had reserved two rooms with king-sized beds; Roger and Deacy have clearly commandeered one room, and Brian decides to join them-- "You need your rest, Fred. I'll bunk with the lads tonight so you can get it. We roll out live in Rockefeller Plaza at 4pm tomorrow. Or today, rather." He checks his time piece again and clenches his teeth.

"Where HAS the time gone, Brian?" Freddie asks in a pastiçhe of his typical light-hearted manner. His voice is soft and eyes forlorn.

Brian feels a twinging in his chest. "Fred--"

Putting his fingers against Brian's lips, "Hush your worrying, my love. I'm perfectly settled now; not a bit off my head." Freddie moves his hand from Bri's lips to touch his cheek. "I'll run myself a bath and go directly to sleep afterwards, I promise. Thank you," he adds.

Brian raises his eyebrows. "For what, Freddie?"

"Rescuing me, of course! My Bri in shining armor." His mustache lifts and curls upward in a smile. Brian lowers his face and shakes his head at Freddie fondly. "I mean it, Brian. Truly. I know at times I can be a bit...shall we say, overzealous in certain avenues?" He waves one hand. "Suffice to say I'm glad I have you to keep me in check. It does me good."

Brian smiles in thanks. "You've also got Deacy and Roger," he reminds. "Rogie means well, even though he doesn't know when --or how-- to shut up." Freddie laughs and Brian chuckles too, growing serious as he reaches out and takes ahold of Freddie's shoulders, gazing directly into his eyes. "We do love you, you know."

"I do," Freddie appears somber now, and there appear to be shadows hollowing out his cheeks. Mayhap Brian is only imagining, but nevertheless he feels that chill again, the worry. It is dispelled somewhat when Freddie comes in for a hug, wrapping himself around Brian securely as if he doesn't plan on letting go. The taller man holds his friend tight, pressing his lips to the top of Freddie's head. "Good night, Brian."

"Sweet dreams, Fred." 

They let go of one another at the same time and key into their rooms; Brian shoots one glance in and sees Roger lying spread-eagled on the bed closest to the door, snoring his lungs out. 

John is burrowed beneath the blankets on the other bed, but upon hearing Brian close the door behind him, Deacy lifts his head and without a word climbs from his spot and curls up next to Roger, bequeathing an entire mattress for Brian to rest his lengthy weary limbs upon. Bri nods to John with sincere appreciation and immense affection suffusing his tired features. Deacy smiles, positioning Roger's head a little higher on his pillow to hopefully lower the volume of his snores. 

Brian brushes his teeth and sheds coat, jeans, and clogs in preparation for sleep. Sweet, blissful sleep. He stretches himself across the bed with a heavy bulk-shattering sigh.

He wakes abruptly an uncertain amount of time later to hear Freddie screaming. Well, shouting would probably be a more accurate word to utilise in this case. Brian cannot make out the words, but glances over to see John's eyes, open and shining in the light from their loo; he hadn't turned it off before. Roger has sat up as well; or crouched, rather, like a cat about to spring. All three hear another voice now, and then a deafening _CRASH_ that makes them leap to their feet and run through the door.

The door of Freddie's room is standing open and swinging. Bill Reid stands framed on the threshold with what looks like the remains of a lamp at his feet. He is holding a pitcher in his hand and rears back as if to throw it into the room at a ducking Freddie, whose eyes are flashing and his voice sounds terribly rough and scratchy as he shouts "Well DO it then! Prove to me you're SUCH a man that you cannot handle the fact I have A FAMILY WHO NEEDS ME! I have a JOB to do!!"

"WHAT family?" Bill sneers viciously. "I see three snobs who need your talent and envy you for it! They aren't your family, Freddie Mercury! You'd be all alone in this world if you didn't have ME!"

Brian expects Roger to lunge in first, swinging, and honestly he is fully on board and prepared to help beat the crap out of Reid, but it is John Deacon who is the first to strike. Little disco Deacy in his short shorts that he'd been lent by Freddie years back and hadn't returned cuffs Bill around the side of the head and runs into the hotel room to stop in front of Freddie. 

Holding out his hand to help Fred stand, John levels a low-browed death glare at Reid. "We aren't just his family," he snarls at the other. "Freddie is my best friend." Huffing and flattening his lips, John pulls Freddie close by the hand that he takes. "I'll be here with him right until the very end, but you, William Reid, are _NOTHING_."

Roger stalks up to Reid as Freddie stares at John, adam's apple bobbing. 

"You heard him." Brian hits Reid hard with his shoulder as he passes to stand on the other side of Freddie, flanking his friend. 

"Now get the fuck out," Roger adds, chin rising. He leans his body forward as he stands nose-to-nose with Reid (well, nose to chest, as Reid is taller), ready and raring for a fight. "...I would dearly love to make you."

"Go," Freddie's voice is a rasp and he appears white as a sheet, though his eyes are burning. John has wrapped one arm around his waist securely, keeping him upright. 

"You're making a mistake," Reid snarls. 

A bitterly amused smile lights up Freddie's face. "I really don't think so." He coughs now, voice completely gone as he mouths "Leave."

Brian holds out his hand for the glass pitcher. Reid lifts it high and then, after a beat, storms doen the hall and flings it back into Brian's stomach. The guitarist barely catches its weight. "You'll be sorry for this, Freddie Mercury. Sore and sorry!"

"... Well then I shall see you in Hell," Freddie's voice croaks like a frog's as Reid whirls and stomps down the remainder of the hallway and into the stairwell. Brian rings security on Fred's room phone, just to be safe.

Roger begins sweeping up the detritus and John turns to face Freddie directly, hands still grasping his waist. "Are you alright?" He asks, voice soft and loving and gentle, without a single trace of the stone-cold fury and fire that had characterised him moments ago. "Sit down, Fred. Here. Right here." Freddie's limbs are shaking but he follows John's instructions, given in his fatherly voice, and sits swallowing repeatedly. "That's it; now just stay put and I'll make you some tea." 

Brian has hung up the phone by now and comes over after first closing the door. "How long was that going on, Freddie?" He questioned. Roger dumps the broken lamp and other items into the trash as Bri stands up the pitcher on the table.

Freddie's dark eyes appear dead in his face as he swallows again. He is no longer trembling, but looks shocked and shaken to the very core. Roger fills and brings a glass of water to him as John heats more for the tea, and the drummer sits close beside Freddie, offering his warmth and his touch. 

Nothing hurts Freddie more than fury against him insinuating that others do not care, when he does everything he possibly can to make people feel loved and truly cared for. Essentially being told that means nothing guts Freddie, lays him bare; it is as though his skin and flesh has been peeled back to reveal his tender innards and they are flayed. Roger had been right earlier in his vehement denouncement of Bill. He had spoken in fury only out of the depths of his love. Dearest Roger, ever loyal but unafraid to speak his mind no matter the result. "...A bit," Freddie croaks out weakly. "He came up here--an hour or so after you and I got in, Brian. I had taken a bath before...." 

Fred is wearing a dressing gown, his skin is shiny clean, and he smells vaguely floral as he leans into Roger's side. The other pulls Freddie even closer, wrapping both arms around him and pressing him against his warm bare chest. Freddie begins trembling again. "Roger, my love, I am so sorry for saying what I did to you about your romantic lifestyle--I was hideous to you, particularly when my own-" his voice squeaks and cracks crazily, disappearing as Roger hushes him.

"Don't worry yourself, Fred." The blond rests his chin atop the crown of his friend's dark head. "It's already forgotten." With a slight shrug and a light tone, he adds "And for the record, you weren't wrong."

Freddie pulls his head back a bit and opens his mouth again, but John is standing before him before he gets the chance to speak again. "Here you are, Fred. Chamomile with a heaping spoonful of honey." Hopefully this will soothe his throat and save his voice. John cups his hands around Freddie's as the other accepts the cup of tea, stroking his knuckles with a thumb. 

"D'you want to get in bed, Freddie?" Brian asks softly. It's nearly four in the morning now, for fucks' sake. John squeezes Fred's hands and backs up, letting go of him. Freddie sips some tea and nods, and without needing to be asked, Roger lifts him, carrying his friend over to the bed. Brian turns down its sheets as John plumps up the pillows. Roger gently sets Fred down and tucks the sheets and blankets around him. 

"Thank you," Freddie mouths to them all.

"Sure, Fred."

"Of course."

"Want us to stay with you?"

Freddie automatically lifts one blanket away from his legs and Roger leaps onto the bed beside him. John nestles next to his legs and feet, and Brian, after first ensuring that the heat has been turned off under John's tea and flipping off the lights, stretches his legs out, leaning his back against the side of the bed with his head close to Freddie's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Americans drink their beer far too cold = I have been a witness to the fact that apparently in England and around Europe, beer is drunk at room-temperature. Nobody chills alcohol in refrigerators except for people in America. Why this is the case, I don't know
> 
> * "The Mineshaft" = according to LIFE Magazine, this was "one of the most notorious gay clubs in New York City at the time--and one of the singer's [Freddie's] favorite hangouts. Located in Manhattan's meatpacking district, it featured a fake jail cell, a truck, dungeons, and somewhat more unmentionable areas." (LIFE - QUEEN p. 58) It is no longer at that address, and my descriptions of the interior come from some experiences I've had in gay/drag clubs as well as my imaginings. I hope that none of this seems disrespectful in any way; I've based Brian's discomfort while there on things he alluded to in the same LIFE article.
> 
> *"I've been told I'm more of a crab, actually" = Brian jokingly alluding to his star sign to comfort himself. Dear man
> 
> *Bill Reid stands framed on the threshold = On a website entitled Gigwise detailing some aspects of 'The Secret Life of Freddie Mercury' which I read as his private life, I discovered the below information: "Mercury had a very temperamental relationship with his boyfriend Bill Reid, including physical fights. The pair once screamed at each other so much during an argument that Mercury woke up with almost no voice left - on the day that Queen were supposed to perform on Saturday Night Live. Mercury only just managed to get his voice back in time for the show."
> 
> As always I love comments :)


	15. Day of the Twenty-Fifth. I'll Love You Til I Die.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of Saturday Night Live

Freddie wakes with his throat feeling as if it has been razed by sandpaper and stuck with nails. But he feels a comforting warmth and pressure against his legs and back, and the fingers of one of his hands are laced with someone else's. Turning his head, Freddie spies Roger's round face and messy hair pressing against the small of his back, arm wrapped securely around his waist. Dear Deacy's pale face rests in the juncture of Freddie's knees, pillowed upon his own arm; and the fingers of Fred's left hand are intertwined with the long-boned magical digits of Brian May.

Putting gentle pressure on his own wrist, Freddie tries to extricate himself from the bodies of his band without waking anyone up. Roger lets out a sweet squeaky sound and buries his head deeper against Fred's back. John stretches a bit and then rolls over, giving the singer space to pull his legs free, and then in light tones barely louder than a whisper, Brian utters "Morning, Fred." Freddie graces him with a smile and a wave.

Brian indicates his friend's throat: "How's your voice?" And Freddie shakes his head wordlessly, causing the other's heart to stutter painful in his chest. He feels hot and then cold, alternating between fury towards Bill Reid and fear for Fred. He looks a little better than he had last night; his cheeks are no longer shadowed and thus do not appear hollow, but to Brian he still does not look well. Swallowing the concerns that rise into his throat in a molten rush of panic, Brian stands and adds "I'll make you some more tea. Would you like tea?"

Freddie presses his lips together and nods, looking pitiful. A lump fills Brian's throat and tears prick his eyes as he squeezes Fred's shoulder and then bustles off to the little included kitchenette to brew tea. Roger is awake now and hugs Freddie tight against his chest as the singer turns to him, resting his cheek on the drummer's forehead. 

Fred reaches down and ruffles John's hair where Deacy has curled up next to his legs. As the teakettle whistles to a boil, John stirs and wakes completely. Brian snatches the kettle off the gas quickly, but is not quite quick enough. Yawning expansively and stretching his arms and legs, John blinks owlishly at Roger and Freddie. "So," he vocalises as Brian walks back over and hands Freddie his tea, "will we be ordering soft foods for breakfast with room service to help soothe Fred's throat?"

"Well good morning t' you too, John," Roger grumbles. Brian chuckles.

Deacy's head slowly swivels and he looks the other up and down. "Yes, I'm sure that it is a good morning for you, Roger. Meanwhile your kneecaps were boring into my back all night." He rises and twists himself about in hopes of releasing some of the kinks in his muscles.

Roger shrugs and pushes his fingers through John's hair affectionately, his flippant version of an apology. "Ya could've moved, Johnny."

Deacon stares at him as though he is daft. "...I wasn't going to just up and leave Freddie, you numpty." Roger's eyes bulge as Brian comes to him now, offering a cup of tea. John accepts it with a nod. "Thank you, Brian."

"You're welcome." Brian smiles slightly at Roger, whose expression has darkened as John's words remind him of his own concern, and how dare John insinuate the idea of leaving?

"I wasn't about to leave Fred either!" He spits out. 

John nods peaceably, sipping his tea. "I know."

"I'll go down and get the two of us some coffee, Roger," Brian offers. "Then we can order breakfast in. I think scrambled eggs are a good option for sore throats, mm? Don't give me that look, Fred. Let us take care of you." Freddie has risen to stand as well, head cocked and one hand on his hip in a vintage I-don't-require-any-mollycoddling, I-can-take-care-of-myself attitude. He softens at Brian's words and after both John and Roger look over to him with nods of their own, completely agreeing with Bri.

Freddie blinks and presses one hand to his heart, gesturing round at his three dears with the other. He feels so lucky to have them all here looking after him. It gives him reassurance that, without a doubt, he will get well and be able to sing tonight.

After breakfast and cleanup, Freddie has some of his voice back--enough to hum a little bit of 'Crazy Little Thing Called Love' and to do some vocal exercises in the shower. Brian is shoved out of the room by Roger and exhorted to clean himself up. "Fred isn't dying, Bri. Go get yourself washed and dressed, mate. You really need to, 'less you're alright looking like that...." Brian glances down at himself as Roger smirks. His shirt is wrinkled and he is not even wearing pants. Oh, God--had he honestly walked through the hotel to get coffee dressed in shirt and skivvies alone?! Goosepimples pop up on his bare legs as he flushes, nods, and practically runs into the other room.

John shakes his head with a huff of fond exasperation directed at Roger. "...You simply _had_ to embarrass him, Rog, didn't you?"

An expression of childlike mischief suffuses Roger's face. "Of course!"

John chuckles, unable to remain at all exasperated with Roger; the man is configured in his humour like an enormous child with the libido of the most voracious teenage boy. But his loyalty to the men he's chosen as his family is undeniable and unquestionable. Roger has proved that fact over and over again, most recently with what he had shouted at Freddie in rehearsal yesterday and iterated after he'd left. "Roger," the bassist speaks up now.

Smacking his lips together and grinning, the drummer looks over. "Yeah, John?" And then at the sight of the expression on John's face, his lowered brows, unblinking gaze, and lips pressed flat together, Roger grows serious as well and shuffles over to plop down beside him. "What's up, mate? What is it?"

John opens his mouth and they hear "AAAY-OH! Badabadabadabada deedoh deedoh deedoh," from the washroom, making them both smile. 

But then the bassist hunches forward, his shoulders slumping as he rubs his cheek with one hand. "I just...with this, with what Reid-" John chokes and clenches his fist after saying the name. Roger's eyes grow steely, murderous. "--what happened to Freddie this morning, I dunno if we can, if we'll always be able to take care of him well enough. Clearly since that happened we-we couldn't!" His open face and the wide-eyed helpless horror etched across it breaks Roger's heart.

"Oh, Deaks." Roger scoots right to John's side and circles an arm around him, holding tight. John's lower lip trembles and he buries his head in both hands this time, voice muffled between his fingers. 

"I just--I'm scared, Rog. He's doing everything and he lives and loves so freely, so completely..." 

John stops speaking then, but Roger is nodding, he has caught the thread of thought. Thank goodness. "He even adores people who don't deserve him." The blond studies the floor as he rubs his hand up and down Deacy's back, trying to comfort him and find the right words. "I suppose... all we can really do is this, John. What we're doing. We can be here for Fred all the time, whether something happens or not--and if, _when_ it does, we help him get through it." John lets out a stifled sob. "Hey, hey. I know how much Fred means to you. You mean everything to him too, y'know. To all of us." Roger hugs the other man tight against his side. "Our little disco Deacy, the heart of Queen. We'll all be here for one another, John. You do know that, right?" He ducks his head and stares directly into the other's eyes.

John eventually nods, tears squeezing between his fingers as he sniffles. Roger stands and pulls him upright for a real hug, and Deacy's tearstained face falls into his shoulder as he croaks out "... Thank you for that, Roger."

"No problem." Roger's chin is trembling as he holds back tears of his own whilst gripping the other tight.

The two hold on to each other in silence until Freddie's voice bursts out, glorious as always, with only a slight roughness to it: "What on Earth is going on? Has Queen lost her entire rhythm section in one fell swoop?" Both John and Roger lift their faces and turn their heads at once to spot Freddie looking fresh and well in a red-orange tank top and blue jeans. His eyes gleam with their usual sparkle, and John closes his eyes and sends up a prayer of thanks. Roger beams. "I have my voice," Freddie spreads his arms in a grand gesture and spins, smiling at them. "Does that adequately lift your spirits, darlings?"

John wipes his eyes and Roger pumps a fist. "Oh hell yes!" The drummer crows. Both men leap across the bed and envelop their frontman in a hug. 

There is the sound of a key in the lock and then Brian's gentle tone floats over: "...So this is what happens when I'm out and can't participate. I blame you, Roger."

Rolling his eyes and holding out one hand to beckon the other over, Roger groans "Get your arse in here, Brian, and shut up."

"Sorry," Bri says and lopes across the room to join the embrace, wrapping his lengthy arms around all of the others. His lovely lads. After a moment he continues speaking in a businesslike manner, regretting to break up the hug, but they have to. Despite the fact that he could stay like this forever. "Who is next for the shower? I just got off the phone with Miami, and he says they're expecting us at the Plaza in forty-five minutes so we're there in ample time before the actual taping begins."

"Right." Everyone moves back and breaks up the hug with varying degrees of reluctance. "I'll bring a change of costumes if you all find that necessary," says Freddie, clapping his hands. "You have the loo, Roger dear." 

"...And I put a fresh towel in ours for you to use, John," Brian tells him as Roger waves and passes them, disappearing into Fred's water closet. John bobs his head at the guitarist in thanks.

"John, love, do you require any new clothing articles?" Freddie asks.

John shakes his head with a shy little smile. "No, I ah, these shorts aren't the only things I've kept for awhile--I brought the white trousers that you gave me to wear in Houston years ago." John shuffles his feet and roughs up his hair. "... they're simply a little tight."

Freddie beams and cups one hand around John's cheek. It is wonderful to see him making such choices for himself and stepping out. "You beautiful boy, I love it. Go Johnny go!" John presses his cheek into Fred's hand for a moment before turning and heading into the other room to take a quick shower and dress. Brian hands him the room key as Freddie turns with a blinding smile. "And you, Brian?"

The guitarist spreads his hands, showcasing the white button-up shirt he is wearing, along with black slacks and--to go along with Freddie--a pair of white Adidas. "I thought I'd give my clogs a rest," he says. Fred laughs a trifle creakily, as his voice is not quite back to one hundred percent yet, but Brian's heart soars. They are ready for their performance long as Freddie's voice will hold; and Brian is not about to count him out of anything. He knows better.

***

Miami is already indoors waiting at 30 Rockefeller Plaza as the neon red NBC sign blinks above the old-fashioned theatre facade. He holds the door open for them as Brian hustles in holding his guitar, Deacy clutches his bass, and Roger swears inarticulately as he exhorts their driver to help him haul his drum kit out of the car. "Should've had this sent over earlier, bloody hell!"

John's free hand is holding Freddie's arm, his strong fingers curled around it gently as he walks beside him, and Freddie's lips lift as he barks out a laugh at Roger's husky outburst. Brian turns and holds the door for Fred as John relinquishes his hold, hazel-grey eyes watching closely as always; their depths a softer, dark contrast to the pale lavender of his shirt. Bri can tell John is worried for Freddie, just like him. The concern remains and won't be dispelled, but it is comforting to know that he is not feeling this way alone. 

A smile lifts the bassist's lips as his eyes catch Brian's, and their manager leads them through the double doors at the end of the lobby and down the lengthy hallway to the studio itself.

They enter a high-ceilinged wood panelled space, not unlike the practise rooms they'd used at University or the clubs in the early days of Smile. It's a small space, where they are; enclosed on three sides, opening a bit for audience seating on the fourth. Brian catches Roger's eyes. They will make do. A production assistant comes up to Miami and he says "Yes, this is Queen," when asked if they are the band performing. Roger's eyebrows now rise into his hair as Bri makes an unobtrusive face at him. 

"Good. Right this way," the assistant hustles them back behind the wooden studio walls, into a green room where they can wait.

Brian settles his shoulders in the dark leather jacket with white arrowheads on its back that he'd thrown over his collared shirt in an effort to look a little bit rock and roll. Roger flips up the collar of his kelly-green coat and jumps up and down. "...'S a good thing my drums will work this time," he says to all of them. 

"And everyone will see you coming in those pants," tosses off Brian. "Lime green, Roger? Really?"

"Hey, nobody's gonna be looking at me," Roger retorts easily as he smacks John on the shoulder. "All they'll focus on is Deacy in _his_ pants, hot damn." Roger giggles as he wags his eyebrows at John, and though the other's face does flush a little, he still laughs along. 

"This is certainly going to be something, dears," Freddie enthuses as he is handed a bottle of water.

Another assistant pokes his head in and they are told "Mic check, sound check--we need you boys out here to do a little tuning onstage before the audience arrives."

Brian straightens up obediently from where he had leaned one shoulder briefly against the wall. Roger is already rushing out the door to make sure his drum set had been positioned right--he had brought it in the building and then a few techs had come and whisked it off. John looks over as Brian studies Freddie. "You ready for this, Fred?"

The singer smiles and stands in a fluid movement, letting out a bright trill of sound. "Let's fucking do it, darling."

Their first song is 'Crazy Little Thing', and the audience is buzzing as it arrives after the mic check, packing the small space. 

The director calls "Action!" and Roger grins as Freddie goes right in to a lively rendition, his voice as rich and sultry as ever. Brian dances all across the stage, in his element as Freddie croons without any hiccups. John is bobbing amd grooving round in as energetic a manner as ever seen, and Roger flares his nostrils and tosses his head, as flashy as always behind the drums.

Freddie is Freddie again--utterly himself; vibrant, regal, commanding the room until the song is through and the cameras have stopped rolling on them, cutting to the rest of the show. The singer waves and bows deeply, Roger thrusting his drumsticks into the air as Brian and John lean into each other for the final chords. 

They run back to the green room as the show goes on, and Freddie puts away the acoustic guitar he always uses for that particular song. With it goes his energy--Brian takes note of his shoulders, and fingers, shaking. "You feeling all right, Fred?" He asks. 

Roger looks over from where he had been murmuring to John and Freddie reaches into his bag to pull out another garment, his white Flash Gordon tee shirt. Ordinary circumstances would have him taking off his current garment, but this time Freddie pulls the shirt over his tank top and hunches his shoulders as if cold. Coughing, he replies "Right as rain, Brian darling," before shivering again and snarling "Blast it! They keep this studio far too cold. It's like the bloody Arctic in here! Next thing you know, we'll be performing with penguins."

Brian shrugs off his jacket and drapes it across Freddie's shoulders. "We'll have to talk to someone about that, Fred. But go ahead and wear this for now." When Freddie does not protest, simply sliding his arms through the sleeves and nodding, Brian puts a concerned hand on his shoulder. "...Are you okay to do 'Under Pressure', then?"

Freddie shakes his shoulders and settles them. "Press on, darling! We mustn't let SNL down; what would they think of us?"

"If they think anything," Roger grumbles.

"Pressure's on," adds John with a sly grin that does not completely manage to mask his own concern. The irony of needing this performance after Freddie's illness and with his poise and showmanship refusing to back down is not lost on John. 

Under the glaring lights in the studio and amongst camera people and crew as well as comedians, not to mention the audience, the air grows first warm and then stifling as they wait for their second performance. Brian removes his collared shirt to free his arms, revealing a white shirt beneath as he fumbles briefly with the buttons. Roger's hair sticks to his flushed face, but Freddie still looks chilled. He had been clear of the virus for weeks now, this is utterly ridiculous. He has some pain in his left side every now and again, but shrugged it off as ephemeral, as nothing lasting. This, well; as the four men stand and sit beside the stage door waiting to be called back out to play their second song, this is incredibly frustrating.

Freddie bounces as they wait to go out, and then offers Brian his jacket back. "No no," the guitarist shakes his head, indicating his friend with a curl of one finger and roll of his hand "keep on wearing it, Fred."

"I think it suits you much better anyway," pipes up Roger, earning himself a teasingly raised fist from Brian. 

"Come on, then," encourages John softly, though his expression is bright and happy. Roger flips his drumsticks end over end as a crew member gestures to them. It is time to go back on.

Brian puts a hand on John's shoulder and nods to Roger before raising his eyebrows at Fred. "Ready, Freddie?"

"You bet your sweet arse I am, Brian my love." Freddie slaps Bri on the backside as he moves onstage to grab his mic. "Let's rock and roll!"

***

"--And once again, Queen," the music presenter introduces with a shuffle and a grin.

There are cheers from the studio audience as John begins his beautiful almost forgotten over pizza bass track. _Bum bum bum ba-ba BUM bum. Bum bum bum ba-ba BUM bum_ "Pressure!" Freddie's voice scratches, makes a crusty sound on the first word, but he pushes through: "Pushing down on you, pressing down on me, no one has fault."

"Under pressure!" Roger instantly backs Fred up with his high voice spot-on the melody. "Burns a building down, splits a family in two; puts people on streets." Interesting enough is with Fred's voice shredding a little now due to not being at one hundred percent, he is singing in his lower register and sounds a bit like Bowie.

"Ee-da-da-day, ee da da deh, Dee-day-ah, okay!" Freddie sings that bit lower too, and his 'okay' is not nearly as strong as usual. Brian remains concerned and adds his voice to Roger's to help Freddie out. John joins in too.

"It's the terror of knowing what this world is about, watching some good friends screaming 'Let me out'! Will tomorrow take me higher-"

"Pressure on people, people on streets!" 

They are doing all right here in front of this audience, in this space. Freddie keeps pushing through no matter what, and Roger is energised as John and Brian back them both up. Queen has this performance handled, and are here for each other no matter what else might come their way.

_"Why can't we give ourselves one more chance? Why can't we give love, give love, give love, give love...?"_

But these men can, and they do. And because of that, all four know that they will be able to make it through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *skivvies = undershorts, underwear. Our poor embarrassed Brian
> 
> *"to wear in Houston years ago" = to me the white pants John is wearing on SNL look an awful lot like the white pants he was wearing onstage in Houston during Queen's 1977 tour. Of course I cannot prove this, but it seems like they all borrowed each others' clothes and Freddie would certainly be the one to give John some tight trousers
> 
> Here is a link to a page with research (and videos) that I referred to in describing Queen's performance on SNL = https://www.google.com/amp/s/lonestar925.iheart.com/alternate/amp/2018-09-25-on-this-day-in-1982-queen-performed-on-saturday-night-live/
> 
> *"Next thing you know, we'll be performing with penguins." = A nod to the music video for 'I'm Going Slightly Mad'
> 
> As of now, this work is ended! Please let me know what you think. Comments are always appreciated :)

**Author's Note:**

> My sincere and effusive thanks go out to the members of Queen for being amazing human beings to learn about and write of.
> 
> Chapter titles of this piece (as well as the overall title) include lyrics from Queen's song 'Save Me', written by the incomparable Brian May.


End file.
